After two weeks the workers return, and collect in their cubes like silt in the gear-teeth of a derelict clock. In a flagrant disregard for instinct they plan their meetings and follow-up meetings, and meta-meetings during which they will discuss the nature of meetings. I become swept up in the tide (or perhaps it’s the undertow) and witness as they awkwardly conduct themselves, and it’s like watching someone with amnesia trying to assume their family lives again: “Is this where I used to sit? Do I like meatloaf?” It saddens me. They speak of deliverables and collateral content and product specs. “No!” I want to shout. “Don’t you realize that you’re using the language of The Man?” And when you speak The Man’s language, he owns your mind. I try to save them from the rising momentum. “I wore this shirt for ten days during the break.” They think I’m kidding. So soon after their emancipation, and already they have their callous-toughened hands on the plough grips.