Red is certainly the most suitable colour and the person in charge is informed of it. The rest comes by itself. The centrally located machine follows closely.
The machine churns out products all the time to tickle the production, to make it sparkling. All the production records are definitely going to be broken within this month.
This is not sure, but it must be what the clerk in charge of the washer-feather- lottery-wheel is thinking. He approaches, presses, totters, turns his head. The last goodbye to his colleagues, who remain at the console, and then he dives. Everything is tossing. Feathers are raised and lowered again. If the clerk bites an apple – get rid of that organic thing-  he offers his arm to the other one for the last laughter and the third one is just ready for the count of the bite and the laughter.
You can play with your numbers or write the production data on your notebook, but you won’t get it. Its spontaneous reaction is not ruled by set laws.
The wing-beat of a butterfly near it could suddenly change its pace.
The effort is nothing worth. While the white substance “X” (which stands for unknown) is being laid, the surfaces are in contact with each other. The suborganic exchange is sky-high.

The aqueous humour runs down the walls. Does all this help?
The clerk in flesh and bones can’t hear us and so misses the opportunity to share a wide smile with the washer-clerk who, remembering the original location, turns back there quickly.

The body analysis laboratory is now empty. The inflicted blow was deadly. Nothing is left but reacting as everyone can do. Throw your punch horizontally and one more vertically, organic steam machine, translate your linear motion into a rotating one, but you will never get me. The chapter is closed here. Maybe tomorrow everything will change.

The tissue paper will have printed the right numbers, the wheel will start to turn, so that you can draw out your luck: 47, 13, 69, 33, 15 drawn on the Bari wheel.
Only the last parts are left to be set. The line is fast and the washer-wheel-lottery clerk is not less fast. Everything is ready for the following stage of production.

On the very left side the head of the discontinuous reactor has been pulled out. The capstan is blazingly winding on the teeth of the gear on and on. In the centre the washer has opened the front hatchway. At the very right side, in the anthropometry ward, the cage has been pulled up out of the ground. The pistons start twisting, the chain has been triggered, the neurotico-abdominal engine room twists sky-high. The team of clerks doesn’t draw back, ever.
The engineers trust in the DDTD(Density of Distance Time Distribution), measure the LDL (Limit Dynamic Layer), ask the oracle, give more and more steam. The machine responds, accelerates, exceeds the limits, explodes. And then?
Lowering one’s guard doesn’t despise some punches in one’s face. The clerk in flesh and bones picks up his stuff and fleets. From the distillation tower he drops his products which are conveyed in the right direction. Before starting again, from the wee-milk-procreation ward some sparks confirm the fall of the bionic phallus. The inorganic androgynous is free for new adventures.

And if the exchanger-potatoes-dryer screams for the last time “aseptic gold bars in exchange for smelly turds” the equivalence shit = gold is perfectly demonstrated.

I am my father,
I am my mother
I am my son
and I am also myself