With hands that were not hands the man that was not a man made a machine that was not a machine. All the while he muttered with his mouth that was no mouth: “Keep me clean. Keep me clean. Keep me clean.”
But he knew it was too late. He was stained with memories, with hopes, with life. He would never be clean again. He said “me” and meant it. He was infected with the idea of self.
There was a way out of this hell that was not hell. If he could cleanse this world of life and make the way clear for the ever-strangers who waited beyond the Soul Bridge, beyond the end of the world, if he could do that he could also be cleansed of life and return to the selfless being he was meant to be, that he should have remained forever.
He made his machine that was not a machine and laughed. He would sweep them all away, everything that lived. He would make them pay for making him care about them, about himself, about everything.