‘it’ll take a year,’ Machine tells me, ‘and I have to pace it out, sly and breathing through my mouth, like a cat.’  yes, I’m scared to run out of time.  Machine tries to comfort me, ‘I’ll get it done,’ it sings to me, ‘in the nick of time.’  well, let not my distress hinder you further.  there’s less of life to waste, quick please, quick. ‘already done, already figgered way in.  no lackeys, no employed drones, no spankypants whippersnappers can slip past. you just stay in the car looking pretty and I’ll do  the dirty work.’