On the eve of the world-returned
He found peace in the pulse of the machine and a zen buried beneath his torment
An antenna towered over the city
Shaped to project the newborn affections and drain him of his vitality
Static surged through the machine and his flesh shriveled and ached
Still, he thought of warmth and forgiveness. Of rapture and reincarnation
And so, he released his ego, to be diffused amongst all