The Factory Manager

Sturgeons know that streams and blood in the lowlands flow in only one direction. Neurosturgeons and mullet-minded-mystics have yet to recognize the unidirectional routes of nervous system bus systems up in the Andes. 

Literate and metaphorical man has told himself:  “You can’t go home again,” but he who would flee the dark delta seeks no solace from shadows, neither does he chase the sun by running east, while watching it in a mirror.

With superficial observation it would seem that your consciousness, (your sense-of-yourself), resides squarely in the head, for is it not there where you hear the voice that attempts to explain the life you end up living?

The silliest words ever spoken are: “Let me explain,” for if you had known what you were doing to begin with, (sufficient to explain it), you wouldn’t be having to explain it now. 

There are workers spread throughout the factory, of whom the day manager has no knowledge. He is cognizant of their output, but attributes it to his shift, (they have no union spokesman).


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