Pulse of the Machine
Something is pulsing in the distance. Idling. Running.Setting foundations on edge and rattling window panes.
Like a distant engine idling, ever diligent, never tiring.
Low bass hum, barely audible, bordering on infrasonic, yet always there on the very edge of hearing.
A queer sound, so very whimsical, as it seems to seep out of the very soil itself.
It defies logic.
It is talking, murmuring, whispering.
the Machine.
Down here, far down beneath the concrete streets and the loamy soil; beneath the rusted pipeworks of man and the caves both artificial and natural, the once lowly hum rules.
It is thunderous, head-splitting and primal, reverberating up to the surface far above.
Its steel and rivet veins pump the oil it calls blood, massive pistons continuously pumping, what little air there is reeking of sulphur and machinery.
Discordant chaos in a frenzied dance of steel and metal.
Like a million screaming voices yelling all at once, man, animal, everything.
Past. Present. Future.
It knows everything.
It is everything.
It is Earth.
It is Nature.
It is God.
the Machine is. the Machine has always been.
And long after humanity has passed.
the Machine
will always
Be
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