Let the machine run whole, and let the gears shift as one. The copper in the air is not accidental. The machine is run on blood and gears, and the gears are lost within themselves. The blood is thick and metallic, but the metallurgists persevere.
Let the machine bear no rust, for no water shall glaze its steel curves. The machine will toil and steam, but wither it will not. The machine is neither life nor death.
Let the machine spin itself out for days, but replace its gears per necessity. A gear is a means to an end, and their supply is unlimited. May the machine pay no mind to the gears within.
When gears become bloodied and their jagged edges soaked in a gilded red, may the machine push onward to its own inanimate end.