Death a Factory

Impossibilities swerved and clicked, whirring mechanically as they were manufactured to fit, custom but far from extraordinary.  It turned out everyone wanted things that were tangible, comprehensible, corporeal. Something ideal was eschewed.  As tennis balls suddenly flooded the foolish factories, they were forced to realize that their only hope had been a regret, disguised cleverly as an alligator disguises himself as a log to a deer.  But by the time they had come to this realization it was already too late and their products came crashing down in a wave of plastic and machinery, of metal and molds, clockwork stopping the way someone might turn their head; steady and impulsive, looking off toward some distant interesting thing, casually interested and half-asleep in motion.



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