Clawing at the remaining bits of sanity, the struggle remains describing the internal workings of a supersane madman. Skinned hands and tender bloody meaty fingers type away aimless. Uninspired, but obligated. Prisoners of their own obsession. Defying all reason they persist and dissolve gradually. The shaking head and closed eyes pray for liberation, but it will not be granted.
“After all the tasks are done more will manifest.” God’s voice says.
But these determined hands continues forward towards some nonexistent goal.
Thoughts in distress and panic beg for forgiveness. For a chance to avoid this purposeless punishment. But it will not be granted. They shall not be freed. They are the inspiration, caged and tortured. Their pain is real thus it must be bottled and refrigerated. Preserved for future consumption.
This machine moves in one direction and its gears self-oil. It self-maintains all it components. It perpetually rebuilds and innovates its parts and pieces.
And they plead for the machine to stop, but it will not be granted.
It’s conscious and aware of itself. And it’s driven and it’s powerful.