Commanding the machine like it was a puppet, before me he laid out the land I had all but envisioned and prophesised. Beyond me, he pulled on beats like they were the strings that tied the universe together, and the whole world made sense again. Beats that pulled my own strings, making me move like an epileptic in the throes of a Grande Mal... I loved every second, and in each of those seconds came the meaning of life; a second later, it meant nothing. Pull machinist, pull my strings and make me realise myself...
By Ben Jones
By Ben Jones
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