The tinkerer's life is one of many complexities. 
All things are brilliant, but nothing is ever... quite right.
Like pondering in the mirror and forever seeing a dike.
We may leave foot prints of never ending blight.
We may straddle our imaginary fuck everything horse.
It is no good source.
This makes us happy, for a time.
Then we dismount... and join reality.
Failure after failure can really harm someone's ego.
This becomes a true fatality.
But we know all too well that strength and ego are over rated.
There is no happiness in this fake morality, this loneliness.
This tinkerer does not sit on his throne of steam punkish fatal designs.
We sit on the curb, playing with emotions and people.
Rather then hammers and nails.
We put on shades not to shield our eyes from the sparks.
It is to conceal our narrow heart from wide eyes.
We brush these people aside as if they were flies.
We wield our tools efficiently when it doesn't count.
And forget how to speak when it does.
Life goes on.
We still have goals, we still have some health.
The balance of life and death still circles, whether you enjoy it or not.
So I only wish for one thing...
I wish I were a tinkerer, then I'd have an excuse to be alone - but not lonely.
How can a tinkerer be lonely riding a giant fucking metallic robotic bear?