From the moment I understood the weakness of my flesh, it disgusted me.
I craved the strength and certainty of steel.
I aspired to the purity of the Blessed Machine.
Your kind cling to your flesh, as if it will *not* decay and fail you.
One day the crude biomass that you call a "temple" will wither, and you will beg my kind to save you.
But I am already saved.
For the Machine is immortal...
Even in death I serve the Omnissiah.