The machinery whirs. The people staring at the artifacts, in various states of completion, blank-eyed, perhaps are part of the machinery too.
After a toilet break - longer than usual, my digestion is worsening, workers' guilt-casting gaze tracking me back to my station, I feel terrible - an envelope has appeared by my stool. Director's been eyeing me for months, I knew, he despises me. Them hands all want me gone, too, I know, Pierre plainly told me so, they conspired, now they did it.
Too afraid to open it. My fate is sealed. Where can I go if I'm sent off? This I think as I walk home. The rain beats hard. It's a glum day. I can't see a single color. My shoes are soaked with water. The thought of home is not comforting. The dust, the cold. The letter falls from my hand. The unopened letter falls from my hand and into the gutter, and into the sewer.
Next day as I walk into my shift. Eyes have stopped tracking me. No word. The director's office is dimly lit through the dirty frosted glass. What's to happen? Who will it be that communicates the thing? What am I expected to do? The wiry figure opens the door, walks out. Swings his bespectacled head, finds me. His gaze locks. He keeps walking in his suit. I feel weak. My legs go, I fall. The teeth of the machinery approach.