Can a man construct himself anew? Can a man, on realising who he is, on what he has become, tear himself apart down to the bricks and begin again? Are our souls just this, tiny cogwheels and clockwork, and intricate machines to serve a function that, upon reflection, we might set to a new task? Can a man, defined by his actions, defined by which he now finds abhorrent, set to sabotaging this body his machine, until those children of his soul turn in a new motion, and he may awake to a new sun, a new year, a new century with hope in his heart? As I reach my hands to the exposed wires I ask myself this - is redemption possible for such a creature as I? And if not, then surely better to die amongst my creations than to continue to live as a monster.