Once in a rusty corner of this congested urban sprawl, there existed a voiceless bard, a vending machine longing to recite poetry about alien shores.
"Change is but a coin's whisper; chocolate is my muse," it sighed.
Alongside a mechanical contraption, an office printer declared, "I've seen papers come and go, yet none make better ships than I. Let's set sail to the printer's sea!"
Deep within the heart of the urban machine, a blender whispered secrets of smoothies to none but the anxious toaster, who was not at all interested in juiced dialogue.
The microwave beeped thrice: a Morse code of culinary faith.
Dance of the Metal Musketeers | Alien Shore Footprints