How often does music but contour our own contemplations, ere might ever surface the very contemplation posed by itself. Yet that we would thus hear ourselves first and so readily– thence originates the pure universality of music; and solidifies the composer as but a dutiful, attentive scribe to the e’er wailing beyond.

Wherefore the clanking and the clamoring of this Incarcerous Machine may seem to you to grind forth from some lumbering mechanical beast; or groan from the rank upon rank of our smog-laden terrestrial factories; or emanate from the very toiling cogs of this implacable inescapable machine our life– and in any case, whatever it may seem to you may very well coincide with the truth.

Scarcely can I, besides, but an humble grease monkey here employed, better illume these shrieking machinations.