“Grind,” it said in a dissonant bell, sliding its feet from step to step, ending with a loud tap. It governed the plant well. Keeping time and grinding. It must never fail to step, to time, to grind.
Slide, step, “Grind.” Always grinding to powder, the dismal days accumulating like worried snow drifts under threat of rain.
“Grind.” Slide, step. Turn. Empty.
Great clouds and billows and swarms of sullen snow-like grey fell outside to the Done. The Done was where the Grind came to rest and never moved from there. It lived to end the lives.
Slide, step. “Grind.”
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