Machines

Beautiful, isn't it, in its own absurd way; the way they dig their
own hole? The way they go blindly like termites about the mundane
business of their own bondage? The glee with which they embrace their
own enslavement; adore their own death, thrive on their degradation.
Surprising, isn't it, that nobody seems to care though everyone seems
to know? How everyone sees and yet no-one voices the obvious.
Sickening, isn't it, the powerlessness with which they accept the
inevitability of their own divinely crafted end; the ultimate futility
of their being, their breathing, their birthing and their endeavours?
Comical, isn't it, the divine humour that drives this machine - the
grand joke of man's achievements? And yet it's pointless to try and
explain. To try to open their eyes and hearts to what they already know
so well to be the truth - that they're committing mass murder, mass
suicide, genocide. Grand, isn't it, I say grand, that such a race of
cosmic drones should value their own poisonous creation as their
salvation, their death as their hope.

They're blind, Lupton, hopelessly blind and yet to see would kill them
just as surely as if we cut off their oxygen supply. The
heart-wrenching realisation that their self-destruction would cause the
poor creatures would finish them even faster than their present
suicide. They'd be lost, poor darlings, crushed by the awful
disappointment of knowing that it's all been for nothing. They've even
been to the moon in their search for a reason for being here. And why?
Even I could have told them there's nothing there! You can see from
here that there's nothing there worth seeing. And yet they had to. They
had to do it to prove the obsession of the machine. They honestly
believe that progress carries them forward. They really seem to think
that this progressive form of self-destructive insanity is somehow
going to save them.

Like a drowning man who gets it into his head that if he swims
downwards even further he will somehow reach some hidden secret supply
of oxygen. They can't stop. Their delusion is the only thing that keeps
them going. The blind desperation that tells them that if they dare to
open their eyes and see what they know to be true then they will be
forced to admit that they're already dead. Dead and buried.

Killed by the all-devouring, merciless, soul-crushing machine. There is
no escape, Lupton, the machine always wins. It has to. It's what it was
created to do. And we are all slaves to it whether we know it or not.
Look at it Lupton. I ask you: Is it not beautiful?
Like termites.