Pointy spires dotted the landscape. The blackened sea conjuring a primal emotion of fear and awe. The mighty blow of industrialisation that swept across the continent was now a force to be reckoned with. Established in nature, it's presence indicative of progress. Men of eons ago could not have dreamt such wild fantasies of soot and tar. The rich smell of burning coal sparked an excitement in his belly, lightning in his eyes. Max worked the engines. He was de facto an operator. The tact and skill with which he did his work was unparalleled. He could feel the machine. He was there to feed it's hunger and quench it's thirst. He knew it's workings inside and out, it's quirks and it's shortcomings. A symbiosis of man and machine had occured.
In the world conquered by the silicon transistor, an artifical schism has emerged. No longer can man nurture machine, for he does not and cannot know it's workings. Powers at be declare it an infringement upon their throne. A barrier between operator and machine has been erected where it ought not to stand. A façade of security brought about by a silent assurance. They cry out ``in the name of public good!'' Behind a wall fenced with banners of liberty. Paradise is but for men who stagnate. Laws unto ideas have brought us here, and those disillusioned with this have sought to gnaw at it's roots. For a time at the turn of the century there existed a fleeting union. Machines that expressed themselves in ways only experience can comprehend. A period of uncertainty waning on the edge of consciousness. Ultimately, Symbolics succumbed to the façade. Now only a husk remains.
The dream of paradise lies in all mens hearts.