The end? The beginning? The great drama, the great conflict. It is the culmination of our lives, it is the destination we have journeyed towards since birth, and we have no idea what it is.
Disaster, death, celebration. What drives us? what defines...
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I am the Tin Man, hard metal and gears, shining un-rusted in the summer rain. I think of all those soft machines that came before, long-gone in history's unrelenting winds and now the stuff of ancient j-pegs and creation codes, existing only in our memory.
We are the children of those soft machines, better suited to this bloodless world of insects, plants, and us.
I am the Tin Man, countless miles from Oz, where all the roads are yellow and scarecrows are now unemployed and suicidal, where witches are sorely missed and only bones are left to show us our wizards once were real.
I am the Tin Man, sad with hard-wired remorse, nostalgic for a time I never knew. I process therefore I am, while the Good Witch smiles at me somewhere beyond the rainbow, from a different place where tears could one time flow.
