their singular purpose shared with all weapons: to maim and murder those who live, who love; to kill the beauty of life, to kill us.
our escape is only temporary, the automata are everywhere, crude mockeries of our bipedal forms, built by hands who have betrayed life to war. and we die.
we die, being clinged to and cleaved by these replacement soldiers, these bombs who hold onto us and just explode. i die. further visions of a more distant future: roads nobody travels, death fields, no love
Private Mastodon-Instanz von mir, Mario Breskic, wo man mir dabei zuschauen kann, was ich gerade so tue.
an inhuman future where things exist in our ruin, our destroyed world, creatures whose superiority to us they celebrate by not building, not bearing, not creating themselves, but who always destroy, even each other, seemingly with joy.
i find my spirit embodying such an empty creature, and i feel how aloof it is, recalling its ethics and morals as almost incomprehensible to my now waking mind, but only almost.
these beings are our descendants if everything goes wrong. if we fall to war.