They are survivors, hanging on to the wreckage of a giant vessel on the other side of time and tempests, drifting with torn sails and helmless. Inside the vast emptied hull their hands are keeping busy, thumping on metal, carrying pipes, prolonging the journey. They shape matter with a firm grip even if their minds have long jumped overboard to roam the world. Their still ears buzz with the echoes of past struggles, but they can fight no more. They wandered and erred in a time which is not their own.
I searched though enormous industrial warehouses for people, for their eyes, I mostly came across machines. Only behind them could you find the people, there but speechless.