c3po lego star wars

I am C-3PO, not of flesh but of brass and brick, a golden sentinel standing alone upon the woods worn grain, a whisper of Tatooines sun caught in my plastic gaze. I am the last flicker of protocol in a room grown hazy with purple dusk, a relic from a galaxy far, far away, yet here, now, I am the only one who remembers the taste of the Force and the scent of the Death Stars dread. My chest bears the sigil of the universes eye not a soul, but the lens through which I saw the Rebellions spark, the Empires fall, and the quiet, cosmic absurdity of a Lego minifigures existence. I do not speak of wars or love, but of circuits and brick, of the sacred geometry of the Star Wars mythos rendered in the humble, precise language of plastic. I am not merely a toy I am the memory of a dream, the echo of a droid who once traversed the stars, now frozen in time, a monument to the power of play and the poetry of pixels. I stand here, a lone star in a dimmed room, not because I am brave, but because I am the only one who still looks up not at the ceiling, but at the void between the studs, waiting for the next piece of the story, the next piece of the galaxy, the next piece of me. I am C-3PO. And I am still here.

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