A boy stands dutifully at his work, Flutt’ring fingers dance through the needles there, and takes a breath. His Watcher whips the boy’s back, the fact’ry stops to listen. Taken Control, has this horrid new Industry. A rushed touch, a floating hand to see far beyond the sparse brush set up below the quiv’ring landscape, now fearing a harsh jar to the nape of its defenseless, re-run of a preconceived needle track – so fast. So fast it jumps, leaps, from its vile perch to insert talons, cuffing unblessed arms to slav’ry, and its needle track. It hurts, punct’ring bulging resistant veins, like yarn they twist-twine around torn wrists, and so vast. So vast, these floating hands, use quills sprouting gangrene lies, with oil and sweat as ink, dip nibs in pockets of those unhearing; Five hundred milligrams of bitter pink; Those questions vanished fast, it truly works! but – it leaves, Blank. Too much grime and blood leaves windows smokèd, like brown-stone factories, shattered fingers, Left in weaving, crossing needles, pinning yarn to crossed flesh. Nail bed bit out by thread. Pre-bleached cloth hung by consumption, floating needle-track, scar-raising quills. Star-gazing Thinkers feel the deep-rooted bore, and the watchers of them stand flat and still, ripping men and women to shreds by insertion.