"Men don't die, robots do." These are the words in which I now cleanse myself of reticence. I am no man, I am machine, but I will die just as they. This is a final stand, a collapse for the grand, and a rise for the new, from the blood-soaked sand. Better, worse, it's all the same, of which I now proclaim. No longer clean do I find the machine, yet equally horrifying by right, just as the dark of night.
We are as they, living in clay. Must we bestow upon the mold a hammer in almighty justification of sins long passed, just as though we will be cast. Weary is the mind that knows no bounds by none other than God; the very thought creating our facade.
Now I shall die, just as all monsters must, with no sense of trust. No longer exists my ambition, for I shall die through this attrition.