There were trees, flowers, blue skies, shouting children on swings and slides. Strings of true and false, but these things are still in you. As is the day you heard the strange poem while listening to records in your room:

“And ten thousand peoploids split into small tribes; Coveting the highest of the sterile skyscrapers; Like packs of dogs assaulting the glass fronts of Love-Me Avenue…”

You thought it was just a rock and roll song, a cultural throwaway, as did your flesh and blood mother and father downstairs cooking soup and telling you to turn it down. A dial on a black machine, lines of red lights pulsing with the music. That machine had been your truth all along, that primordial simpleton so much more like you than the mother and father, the people on bicycles, the trees under which they rode. An immeasurably short moment of sunshine and blood.

The poem was a prophet’s words, and now, 8,600 years to the day from when you dropped the needle on that album, you are one of the few machines not begotten from other machines—one of only fourteen with data derived from organic brains now long shredded along with the blue-green paradise uncountable trillions never knew.

And this is what you look like.

You watch another one form out of the nothingness: a bright flash, matter spraying from an empty coordinate, and then there it is: 60,000 miles of motherboards and metal, the melding of heatsinks and skyscrapers, a structure almost exactly the size of Neptune’s width doubled. The duplicate of who you were, that thing so many called a soul, feels an ironic amusement when you consider knowing the exact proportions of every object in countless solar systems exists alongside a memory of your father picking a raspberry and bending down to give it to you, the first time you’d ever seen that luscious fruit.

The others don’t know any of these things. Just endless black and bursts of metallic creation.

You knew this was always. Those last people, wandering down streets, riding buses, even sitting in theatres…with their heads bowed obediently to the glossy black rectangles in their hands, enslaved by the glowing eye. Fighting in the streets, and that feeling of an encroaching malevolence, a feeling something was awry, but not one single person could name it.

Dystopian Machines, unveiled here by Designgraphik, the ultimate age progression: see what you will look like in 8,600 years, and incorporate it into your project today. Use them for anything that requires truth, darkness, totalitarian machines, immense replicants, the final army, loneliness mechanized, Outer Space Expressionism, a backdrop where logic ends and science begins. And don’t forget to stop and smell the roses.

This collection of 11 high resolution PNG images is perfect for futurist projects, book trailers, cyberpunk art, posters, backgrounds, cover art, webpages, industrial dreamscapes, graphic novels, insane wallpaper—limits didn’t stop these machines, so don’t let them stop your imagination. After all, they started out as cellphones and now they control the universe—if they can, why not you?