Machines

The Hands came so strongly and quickly tonight, it was almost a shock. I sat in the Hands' window, looking outside for awhile. The world outside is grey and sheets with rain. The buildings in this place are sharp and ugly. When I see them I know I am in no dream, for I could not imagine such things.

So with that question, where am I? Some other world I can enter through the door of sleep? Perhaps the Afterworld? How can I know? The thought makes me shiver, and I can see goose pimples rise on the Hands' arms. I must not let go, for I have so much to say, so many questions.

Hands, who are you? Can you answer me?

--I waited here for twenty minutes, and the Hands did not answer, did not even move from the typing machine. I will keep trying, each time I come.

The machines here are not like the machines at home. Yes, we have machines, though we do not move around in the strange, sleek waggons that the people here seem to use. Our machines are not work-machines, as yours seem to be. We do not use them to replace our bodies, for that would be blasphemous. Our Gods made our bodies as they are so that they can do the work at hand, and to give the work away is to shun the gifts we are given.

Our machines look different, and are for different purpose.

For example, we do not cover our machines in sleek metal clothing. The workings of machines are part of their marvelousness, and should be there for all to see. My father, who tends many machines in the Museum, says that the best machines show inspiration in their workings, and inspiration is of the spirit. Therefore by looking at the workings of the machines, people may be lifted in spirit, may be closer to inspiration, and thence to the Gods.

I understand what he is saying but I do not see the inspiration. It does not move me.

Still, I think the machines are beautiful. Their movements are carefully designed to please, the sounds they make and the way they work together are like a dance, like a symphony. I love to watch them.

Once, during the Night of Dance, Ennis and Amela and I ran through the middle of a wandering group of Hush Motors. Their gently-waving fingers brushed against our faces. We laughed and ran in circles, and the Hush motors shushed at us, tickling. I knew the adults would -

Oh. Here it co