My insides are rusted shut. Every movement makes joints squeal and want for oil that I don’t have. Fire inside consumes everything it can touch, iron, steal, orange oxidized flakes, black particulate of what once used to fuel the machine. When movement slows copper colored sediment fills in the nooks and crannies as it eats away at the foundation. The supports and girders are brittle and broken. A spark from somewhere, and the fumes of ancient oils ignite, and all the artifacts are cheerfully destroyed.
Written after a few particularly bad days, if I recall. What I remember from this time is being cold and wet.