There is a heavy, complex piece
of machinery, with mechanical mechanisms and electronics sitting in my
driveway. It is wrapped in painted metal
and designed to transport us from here to there and back again. It has leather seats, windshield wipers, in
case of rain, and a fancy steering wheel, allowing both left and right turns.
Over time, these cars have become
quite sophisticated, having cameras that look for us, alarms that warn us, and self-adjusting
seats that remember just how we like things.
We have created roads, with
signs, lights and guard rails. We established
laws regulating how fast or slow we can go, and built-in computers that show us
the way.
The older models used a small metal sculpture to make them go. They were called keys. They fit in your pocket and never failed. Now, the more advanced ones are called key fobs. They are battery powered. The battery is not much bigger than a dime. They eventually run out of juice. They can do that without warning. When that happens, the machinery fails, the mechanisms do not function, the alarms won’t warn you, the cameras stop looking, and the GPS is at a loss as to where you are on the planet.
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