Valves tick on a chain holds, Gear on gear the dark below, Returns the air of life. Hollow hums the glittered grid. Machines alone weld and mend, The city's exhaled breath. Chasms span from root to trim, Floor to floor the walls within, To fill up high with sky.

Exploring the areas under the city. There are robots that clean up the random bits of daily life that fall from the arcologies above. What do you think they find? What careless stories snow down upon the abyss?

People don't know what goes on under our feet. These megastructures are maintained by an underworld of vast machines and giant conduit. The forbidden 'machine city'.

What is up with creators who don't inhabit their creations? You make an amazing world, but are scared of being with it? How foolish it is to say, 'Oh I made it using this technique, with this philosophy.' As if you hold it at a distance in disgust. Why should I want to go there if even you don't?

The air tastes like metal and ozone down in the forbidden machine district deep below the city, where the city's vital functions are processed and recycled. Heat, water, waste, trash, raw materials all come through here. Most of the factories are one strata higher vert.