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Metal decays. Metal decays until
it is gone. A fine mist of rust settles
over the day. Last nightfall I was ill.
I groaned when I moved. My cogs and cables
complained. Afterlife: nothing much happens.
Here at the quiet limit of the word
argon rises, five-folded mists. Humans
deeply love magic, but hate the wizard.
As if dark science leads to a hereafter
other than what we’ve made it. Afterlife:
nothing much happens. It is my nature
to rust. Decay cuts through me like a knife.
Death has just only one dream: to conspire
to make us all into dust flakes on fire.