Argyle sweaters fit much better made upon a loom with yarn and string. The pendulum swings in a grayish office room. Watch this lever rise then sever the fabric on its way. Notes were taken, some mistaken, but it is underway. Some process points, the older men chose not to teach the new.

Morning lull, it grates her skull. There's nothing on the line. All the dormers want legwarmers. Business is doing fine. It's a shame the boss is one who tosses the scraps out in the trash — in the rain — and no one's in for his racist folklore. He's speaking for himself and maybe for his country, and the loomists plug their ears and try their best to do their job.

Tracy's done November 1st. She put in her two weeks'. Boss won't let up. She is fed up every time he speaks. She penned a letter meant to sever the fabric on its way, but none were listening, their eyes glistening, teary, on their way to a pension they'll receive some thirty years on down the line.