The moor-wandering eremite adores these intricate little machines, these spring-powered automata, these puling mechanical men and unfolding contraptions, assembling his stolen collection for display among the rushes. The Queen Moon's starry fays, the bathing planetoids, and Palpatine pass by at various times during the evening and pause to appreciate the clinking, clattering collection, the emperor's gnarled fingers gesturing childlike approval when a gypsy figurine weaves a complex gesture of incantation.
The cranes flutter.
The tin drummers click.
The cherry scribes sloth-slowly engrave the parchment.
The fullerene static generated by the nearby nanobots inititates madness, insanity, chaos, often driving the recluse deeper into the wilds, yet these contraptions are the way of tomorrow and the soft, soothing miniatures, so dearly regarded by the deranged hermit and all passers by, are so 19th century, so yesterday, so antique. Even Babbage concedes that there is little to be learned from them and that the star trail must be cleared for the self-assembling goo pooled in laboratory vats, goo composed of countlessly congregated angstrom droids pushing outward by virtue of their own volume, goobots that cannibalize each other in their expansive processes.
Nanotechnology will doubtless soon arrive, but the mezzobots now swell for one last act of noble note.
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