A well oiled machine.
Its gears daily greased.
Cogs turning for centuries and shooting out steam.
An army of engineers to keep it running eternally.

Behind the smoke screen,
a lone projectionist screams for the audience to open their eyes -
to stop listening to the churning of mass produced lies.
(Shortly afterward,
he dies.)

A well oiled machine.
Occasionally leaking blood from its seams.
An army of janitors assigned with keeping it clean.

A lone visionary decides to alter the design.
Creates a switch that will turn all fog into light.
(Right before he goes to flip it,
he dies.)

A well oiled machine.
Built solely for the purpose of spitting out smoke,
and beneath it, a graveyard
of those who tried to throw a wrench in its spokes.