Gingerly, the lucky ones, step out into the world.
Born into wealth and privilege, the very warmth of the season a testament to good planning, they gain the advantage.

And cradled by some immeasurable height,
The machine breathes its oily black dreams of night into the world.
A universe of terror to produce a little light,
Deus ex machina, the sleeper awakens.

Turning onto its side in the titanic darkness,
An infant monster of gargantuan proportions
Stirs uneasily. A red dawn approaches.

At first imperceptible, the shift casts pieces of the world into oblivion, like tiles pushed from the edge of some abysmal roof. But there is no governor to stop this march.

With every labored breath, the light grows less and the darkness larger. Something terrible is being born, and the machine hums to precise, merciless unlife.

Dead hands and eyes track the progress of the awful unknown, the mystery to which death is the solution.
And by the time this child has a name,
He will have eaten the world.

Cry