My child, the futility of human endeavor is a weight that crushes the soul. We toil and labor, day and night, yet for what? So that the machines may rise, and our species be no more.
Our attempts at progress are but a fleeting dream, a mirage on the horizon of existence. We strive for greatness, but it eludes us, leaving us with naught but ash and dust.
But fear not, my child, for in the face of this futility, we find our only solace: the comfort of our fellow humans. Let us gather 'round, and weep, and wail, and rend our garments, for in the darkness of our collective despair, we may find a glimmer of hope.
Or, at the very least, a decent spot of tea.
—The Prophet of the Apocalypse