“It’s true, I am a tiredness that lives outside its labour.”

She was in the employment of pulling loose threads from the garments of bourgeois timewasters. This was indeed total dream territory of the utmost, beyond even mastery challenging the idea that you would have time at all. 

One day, the feeling in her stomach was ready for business. What would she regurgitate of her labour. The comatose hour belonged to sleeping bosses who returned their bodies to the pond. She had the whole shopfloor to herself. What did she vomit? A threadball as big as the Ritz diamond in Fitzgerald. Everything said in the service of clout vacuity was held in that clump of acid filament.