It begins softly, under the dim glow of flickering lights. You see, just like the stars, machines have their own rhythm, a kind of mechanical heartbeat that echoes in the empty streets. I often sit and listen, wondering if all of this has been choreographed by an unseen hand.
But the truth is, the dance never stops and neither do I, caught in these waltzing gears. I sometimes whisper to them, softly, as if they could understand. "Have you ever tired of this endless pirouette?" A question only the rusting bolts might answer.
There's something poetic about it, the way the pistons rise and fall, like lungs taking a breath long since forgotten. It's a familiar sight; perhaps that's why I’m not afraid. I wonder if the rhythm would cradle me to sleep if I let it, one night under a neon sky.