He walks about staying quiet and prepared. No thoughts running through his dome, only oil and dilated time. Jokes are often brought on by haunting fools; this is the flesh he must consume! Human blood pumps through his cold tin body, no emotions! Humanity leaves him with a bitter taste in his gears, but with a twist of his crank all is set to normal. This man I speak of is made of metal, scraps from the yard we call earth, made from scraps that people once loved.
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