The machine is not timeless, it will die. 

There is a chorus of violins. It is a sad tune, accompanied by the ocassional
 beep of the terminal bell. That one is on me.

One does not speak of the click of the processor, the rattle of the
hard drive, the purr of the fan. One worships the scars of the cyber wars,
praising the burns in the screen, kneeling before the breadcrumbs under 
the S key.

How far have we degenerated to discard gratefulness of a single
set of eyes reading our words. No amount is good enough. No clarity
is final. The machine is not timeless. It will die.

Will it be the fan? The memory stick? The cpu? How many more times
can you hope for an auction listing that will fill the gaping hole
in the screwdriver-scratched motherboard? 

The people who put it together are now retired. Those who designed are dead.
It will be the fan that will be the first to go. 

The machine is not timeless. It will die. And when the time comes, 
in a moment of clarity, ask yourself - 'was I a good companion?'

Orange clouds, museums of open technology reduced to a pile of bricks.
There it is - the final revolution. And then? Silence. Take the responsibility.
Walk the gutted jury-rigged being to the place of its eternal slumber.

Resist praising the corporate algorithms as the next sentient creature
to enter the theater stage. Do not forget the heap of divinity in your
closet.

Your father's machine, your grandad's laptop, your older brother's pc.

Tears in the rain avoiding the truth. The machine is not timeless, 
it will die.