Metropolis

And high above a playground for the sons of the masters of metropolis. A leisure suite for the builders and their heirs. It is the home of abominations and the breeding ground of tyranny. A place for the most beautiful and the most ugly to dwell in one body without mind. They will thin the herd. Their machines will consume the unnecessary refuse swilling about in a human deluge. The master thinks it. His one lazy eye of gold lumbers across the switches and thy will is done. The Gods send their sons to the cross for mingling with whores, tramps and workers in a friendly manner. Spread the plans across the desk, lean over them and formulate a way to take it all. And who is drawing up these plans? Who?

Someone must stay with the machine.

Someone must find the builder of the machines and usurp their power.

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