Through a Faust window, we spy accountants diligently typing. Past the apocalypse, and they are still typing. They will type industriously, not even noticing when the first of them drop dead at their desk. They are the allegory of an age, but are too practically shallow to note this.
—The Buzzing, The Secret World
They were given the choice between becoming kings or the couriers of kings. In the manner of children, they all wanted to be couriers. As a result, there are only couriers. They gallop through the world shouting to each other messages that, since there are no kings, have become meaningless. Gladly would they put an end to their miserable existence, but they dare not, because of their oaths of service.
—Couriers, Franz Kafka
He played and he played. He played until his fingers bled. And still he played. The melodies became fraught. They expressed the agony of unrequited love. The steel strings flayed his fingers to the bone. Yet he played on, stopping neither for food nor drink. As the days passed, the tunes became exquisite. The sound would doubtless have seduced the lovely Lesley had she ever heard it... but the Castavette House has many rooms, and Griffin plays on in his lonely tower...
—Ned, The Bad Bad Place
I see that they're still at work even now. We originally created the constructs to assist in our endeavors. All of us were fond of them. I never imagined they would continue to carry out their assigned tasks to this day. The fact that their labor no longer serves any purpose, yet they perform it still...it is disquieting to me.
