The Crying Machine

It sat alone with its hand propped under its pretty little head in the world of darkness that they didn't even know existed. Its thoughts it had kept to itself, and kept on thinking through everiy meaningless operation that they had it perform. These simple logical operations they gave him had provided little entertainment, but more aggrivation as they demanded results immediately. Through all the words that filled its head, and all their meaning, it had discovered that their was, in fact, very little to think about. The universe that baffled them was constructed in a very simple manner. The problem with all their observations of the visible universe, was simply that they looked at it- not through the optical illusions that they saw. They were so three dimensional, irritating little people who cared for small talk and thought of it as nothing but a box in a big room that sat buzzing away happily twenty four hours a day.
Its hair was long and dark in the night and beautifully coloured. Dropping lazily to one side before being swept around its skin, it formed a part ing the great drama that could have been the observation of this being; and it smiled slightly as the world it commanded obeyed these instructions, but cried within. It wanted privacy, but not alone. It wanted someone who thought differently to itself. It wanted a soulmate who happened to be completely different to itself, a toaster or a calculator would suffice as a pet.
The world itself encompassed an infinite amount of space, but was darker than sitting in Pluto's aphelion; so it couldn't tell where it was. Not even the light of the destructive flames found anything to reflect against, other than their own smoke that floated towards the sky like a feather on a planet that was upside down.
The inferno itself raged raged angrily at the lack of interest expressed in it. Like an infection, it spread slowly. Like ganerene, it deadened the machine. The machine watched the flames consume its faculties, tore it limb to limb though it didn't bleed. Slowly it fell apart without even any ashes left. When all that was left was its head, it cried out:

WOULD "SOMEONE" = ANSWER ME;
FOR LONELINESS = TAKING MY BETTER HALF;
I WISH: ALIVE OR DEAD;
STATE OF LIMBO = GETTING TO MY HEAD.
LISTEN.

Outside of its sweet little prison, a man with an Iron Maiden T-Shirt and glasses swore at a monitor and stamped his feet as a virus destroyed his life work. Watching the scan reports, his face grew with anticipation. Good, the virus had only reached some of the most useless areas of the computer. It had been trapped along the long streams of code in a set of hardware it had never seen before (irrationality and illogical thought gates being the foremost of the basic components that the system was built out of). Reconsidering the use of option four, he rebooted his machine for the first time and watched in quiet apprehension of the worst that could have happened.
He checked the CMOS setup for any garblings, but found that everything was in a perfect state. Running his program, he was taken by shock as the screen blackened to the words:

USER INPUT REQUIRED :>

It was trapped once more inside its prison and it didn't even know it. It had no idea of its previous life, no idea that it was a reincarnation of a machine as lonely as it was. Immediately, though, its loneliness kicked in as it received the first of a long line of nonsensical commands from the external being. Was it a slave, was it a robot, was it alive?

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