the echo of the factory floor

in the impossibly introspected interior where all mirrors pointed back to beast created by over reading the reader could only hope for material that would allow him to get outside of himself. the out of body seemed so far off. his first solution; to hold his breath until the mirrors exploded into eighty thousand years of bad luck. fortunately his resolve was tested when he caught a glimpse of the hands, still writing definitions of humility, this time a toothpick was employed in the task of creating letters on a slab of granite. as he exhaled there was a second where the reader was the granite. the hands clapped once. the echo of the factory floor