On an Honest Day's Wages and Other Matters of Particle Physics

It's not hard to see why the Industrial Revolution Spread like wildfire through the forests Of collective conciousness. The machine was already in place, But stainless steel is always better than flesh, so it would seem. Now the flesh is merely charming, old-fashioned; An affirmation of being in touch with the halcyon days of five minutes ago, And the precious shreds of humanity remaining still in the wealthy. They are the gear-masters, and we are the cogs. But what of you, my dear? If thinly veiled metallic our flesh-tones disguise, What of a moment stolen, a stroke of wordplay, a whispered touch... If it is only mechanical, To feel the electricity course through my body The way it does when you're around (close enough to exchange charges, close enough to displace positively charged ions and other explanations of physics and V=IR and blah and blah) Makes me yearn to store a charge Big enough to short-circuit the wheels of time, fate, human nature And leave just us. And though those wheels would invariably regenerate And roll over us, bigger and faster and more efficient (hurry hurry hurry nature abhors a vacuum with a one day only 10% clearance on wine and cheap perfume) It would be worth it to push the theories to their limits, To cut open the particle accelerator with Acham's Razor, To prove that life can come from nothing, To prove that matter can be created, To prove a touch can destroy the universe, And leave only two remaining. It is why when I dream of you, I dream of perpetual motion.