Every press has one machine it does not sell time on. This is that machine. It runs on a flywheel and a screw, it is inked in violet, and it does not accept copy: it is fed only blank stock, and what comes out is decided upstream of anyone who works here.

The eye above the screw is not decorative. It is the part of the apparatus that watches the operator, which is the part every apparatus has and most keep behind a panel. Move across the plate and it follows. It blinks about as often as you do.

The sheet in the bed reads Productive Wrongness. Ask it for something strange and it will print the next thing on the roller; there are four, and it has never been persuaded to add a fifth. Meaning is produced. This is the object that admits it.