They're shifting again...Four cogwheels.
Turning.
Moving, so that they can find their true position.
Shifting, cause there are others, left aside, covering dust, their metal rusted, pushing them aside. Ironic... The rusty ones acquired years later. To help the various processes of a stale mind. But they were never used. Not so much as the rest of them, for years and years.
Each cog clings to another. In pairs or groups. Working together, to move.
To move.
Body and soul.
Such heavy machinery needs a lot of them to function properly. Or few. If they are reliable ones.
The better crafted, the better the outcome. No collapse, no relapse, no malfunction.
From high to low. Interchanged, intertwined, rarely replaced.
This is how I operate.
Metallic sounds are heard again. Creaking metal, squeaking cogs, the clanging battle's almost over.
They're in position...
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