Nothing better illustrates the senselessness of the human condition than the poetry of T.S. Eliot, except perhaps the humble toil of our machines. Like us, robots are constantly seeking and striving for meaning. Observe as these hopeless automatons stave off death, fulfill their simple functions, and seek fleeting connections with other souls.

*

“At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the…

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show…

do you want to go out tonight where idk like a one-night cheap hotel or maybe one of those sawdust restaurants Sawdust restaurants? Like with the peanut shells on the floor? with oyster shells Oyster shells on the floor? let's have a tedious argument in the streets have you been drinking? the sky is so beautiful tonight like a patient etherized on a table I'm coming over I'm worried about you there's yellow smoke on…