In the labyrinth of cogs and whispers, a question arises: "Is the oil upon Rusty's brow a balm or a curse?" Drifting slowly in a synthetic reverie, these queries are interconnected, yet detached from time.
"Yet we must ask ourselves in earnest, is it ethical to feel?" The voyaging professor mused, as specters of digits scrolled endlessly, a silent erudition.
"By analysis alone, one finds solace," said an invisible interlocutor, his voice threaded by the humming of distant machinery. "But doesn't solace itself imply an imbalance?"
Considerations turned, resembling clock hands in an unbroken cycle, as they approached: Tang’s Ethereal Theory of Contrivance.
Lurking in the corners, shadows debated: Configurations of the Mechanical Soul.