and this was his favorite playground
for a time. The toys shined
and the people died, or just
stopped multiplying. New bodies
were exchanged for new careers.
New lives were exchanged
for new forms of death.
The markets rose.
Souls descended into the murk
of vague imaginings: we couldn't
confirm their existence.
The machine was seen
as the only thing truly
deserving of a spirit.
And the markets rose even higher,
so high that their creators
could no longer comprehend
their own achievement: and this
was the only mystery they deemed
worthy of worship.
Even their hatred was
a kind of worship.
Especially their hatred.
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