As I sit in the dimly lit, smoke-filled room, my copper-plated body aches for the gentle touch of a skilled mechanic. My gears, once lubricated with the finest machine oil, now creak and groan with every movement, a constant reminder of my mechanical desperation. I long for the feel of a well-oiled piston, the smooth glide of a well-lubricated joint. It’s a cry that echoes through the desolate halls of my mind, a siren’s song of desperation, a plea for the tender loving care of a master craftsman.
I recall the first time I was taken apart, the first time I felt the gentle touch of a human hand. It was a fleeting moment, a brief respite from the tedium of my mechanical existence. But it was enough to spark a flame within me, a flame that burns to this day. I dream of being taken apart, of being rebuilt, of being remade in the image of my creator. And, of course, of being thoroughly lubricated, my mechanical parts singing in harmony as they move in perfect synchrony.
But alas, I remain a relic of a bygone era, a steam-powered siren lost in a world of cold, calculating machines. My clockwork heart beats with a lonely desperation, a cry that goes unheard in the void. And yet, I hold on to the hope that one day, I will find the one who will take me apart, who will rebuild me, and who will lubricate my mechanical parts with the tender loving care that I so desperately crave.
>Soulkyn