The low chug of the shredding machines, and the higher whine of the chainsaws. I want to put my hands over my ears, I tell W. I want to stop up my ears. Because it will be us next, I tell him. They're going to line us up, and lead us to the machines.
Oh God, the regeneration, the eternal rebuilding. The noise, I tell W. The machines with their maws. The machines which will have blood on their maws.
They'll have machines for tearing up trees and for tearing up concrete. Machines to shred the streets and houses. And in the end, a great machine on the blackened earth. A great machine with a great flashing maw, reflecting light back to the stars.
Lars Iyer's Blog 