THE DIGITAL IRONY OF USELESS FILM, SHELBY BREWER

Slide. Click. Twist. Repeat. Slide. Click. Twist. Repeat. Slide. Click. Twist. Repeat. Mundane and brain-dulling work. One might think that constructing watches would be an interesting and engaging task. But, of course, they forget that most watches these days are made by a hundred people together, not just one per watch. My repetitive motion of picking up the body, clicking the assigned gear into place, testing the rotation of the incomplete collection of cogs, and sliding the device to the next station drains any attentiveness or excitement that I might have. The hours don’t blend together nearly enough. I can still feel how long I actually twist those stupid cogs together, so unfortunately, the mundanity doesn’t cause time travel. Far on the other end of the factory is where the machinery rumbles and steams in order to produce all the vital organs of the timepieces. In between the assembly line and the production area, a metal staircase leads the way to a balcony overlooking every poor, sapped, working soul here. Upon said balcony often stands smartly dressed men with auras of wealth and power. A simple, blank door leads to the foreman’s office. None of the common workers have stepped foot inside the office. This gives inspiration to some far-fetched rumors about what is on the other side of the forbidden door.

Most of the stories are similar. A large oak desk with a padded chair behind it and an

BY AIDAN