[ Perhaps that's why they hold a certain place of reverence in the Doctor's hearts. They're not sentient, of course, but that's never stopped the Doctor attaching to anyone or anything. He's always admired the dedication and time the Machinist puts into maintaining the automatons here, and if his help is ever required, he's quick to volunteer his efforts. He can't linger in the quiet for very long, he finds, but this is a respite for him and internally, he thinks of the machines here as silent friends of a sort, even when his visits are rare. ]

In theory. It would take a lot longer for them to break down than the mortals of this world.

[ Perhaps that's why he's so fond of them sometimes, why he comes here after a particularly bad day or series of days. The automatons perform a function; they don't harm one another, they don't wither away and age and die. At least — not as quickly as mortals, the ones he cares for so much even though he shouldn't get so close. ]

There's something beautiful in them, though there are things missing, too, wouldn't you say?

[ The full spectrum of life, of actually living, as it were. Curious, of course, as to how the Nomad will respond, with what he's become. ]