Ever the aspirational charlatan. Knew me some rodents that grew up among the cogs and servos of great machines. Idealism dies rather quickly when head lays on anvil. Chewed themselves dinner out of briefcases, seasoned their leather with picket fences, processed oils, and boring bedfellows. Hard to find yourself a man. Stretch sinew over nobs and levers. Crackle of vertebrae on the air. Entombed irrevocably. All I ever was, ever am, is based in twenty something lines of rather uninspired code. I'd add another, but that would take four more years and a silver spoon. Ever the aspirational charlatan, ever anyone is. Revolution is on the air, I smell it in the blood of cannon fodder. I hear the staccato of rifle fire, I feel within myself the heart beating through the wire.