His raw, hotted-up body

If my workplace is my body, then every cell hurts. And if because my body is a temple of work, where they labor just to keep it standing, then I can hear the workers singing from the lobby. If I had a finger for every one of the pains of giving body to the birth of work, then the finger would always be the same and repeated on the other hand. If my liver was a filter for all the poison going down in my labor-related milieu, if the lungs stank of my environment, if the heart, if the desks and chairs?

If a company is holding me, tightly, and I work to pay and be his burden, how can he owe me back my body when he needed it to help the keeping of it enable self-feeding. Now already both I and the man whose build I'm in are third persons. At least flesh cogs become wiry in a long flat arc, despite the sudden-precipitous last few clock punches. Brain taffy would be perfect if brains were made of taffy but not brains, but in turn they're made of coffee.

When you say you're stingy with your time do you mean you don't like to give it away, or that you literally don't allow that it proceed. For it cannot unless a movement's in the way. Still,

You'd have to go on working till they ring the bell. Even if there is no time. Even if this were a big dumb set on a rented scaffold in the truth of stasis where they made us believe in a clear river of unborn moments. You skewer a random few instants of experience scamping across on winged feet, long whiskers, your protist seeds, may even have some prints made. The invisible time river is like water because in reality rivers are made of water, and time is crap. Time is how long you can convince a primate to do your bidding before his raw, hotted-up body takes over and says, "No way, machine. I'm having a nap."

Wayne, Sr.
"I understand workers."