The machine that propels us this way and that
has no master.
No purpose or direction sits behind the move.
Like the wind or the weather patterns
as commonly found in Scotland
we cannot predict sun or snow or storms
one moment to the next
The machine that drives the bus
is not the bus
The machine that runs the world
is absent of thought
The machine is what we need to live
we need to love the machine
and live with it
whilst trying to wrest control from it
in the complex pattern of simplicity
from which everything emerges.
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