I sit in the dim light of the great room.
The draft from the door that never shuts hits me, sending chills down my spine.
It causes me to look up from my work and gaze at the forest before me:
Machines, taller and larger than living redwoods, crowd the hall, like the paradise of a logger.
The incessant grind of the gears and the screech of rods invade my ears with their horrid sound --
Almost like a moan or a call for help.
Then I see the people, easy to miss among the machines,
Performing their tasks as if they were nothing but parts of this great production.
I can sense no joy, no fear, or hope in their eyes;
All that is left is exhaustion and focus on the task at hand.
I look down at my own two hands, somehow still occupied with my monotonous weaving.
Somehow I too have become a piece of this factory, merely a bolt in an engine.
I glance back up.
Then I run...

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