Wicked machine, automaton of flesh and bone, who made thee? Thy stumble amuses and terrifies, those who know ye not tremble at thy sight. Yet I know thine deepest threads, for I crafted them from dream to reality. Thy purpose is to wander. Thy right is to walk. I made you to challenge myself, to discover if a mortal could bring rebirth from corpses. Yet now, having made you, I leave you to roam. I care for neither what avails you nor hinders your trek, for I no longer put you in my eyes. I hence move on to a greater creation than thy shambling mess. Fret not, thy suffering will not last. Thine end shall come soon. Without my will to sustain thee, thine fate is to crumble, reduced to dust and crematorium ash. Farewell, my child of hubris.