With a wrap of a heart string, and the scrape of a chisel. The body is formed anew. With its intention and design. Mind is given it's return. And with tear soaked lumber, painfully harvested from where it all began. Soul is given rebirth. True automaton, a shaped curtain to shield the eyes from the wicked, if for just a moment. For it is true wickednesss that a story is lost to time, a library burnt down in chronos. So one shall shape a blackbox. And bring them back to life...