The assembly line is pulverizing itself. The donkey parts lie on the floor, leering back at the misshapen belt. There is an ungodly sound of wobbling industrial rubber and unloving metal. The button sees the misshapening, but it can't press itself. This button has morals. How can it override the lack of pressure on its glossy exterior? Would it cease to be a button by doing so? Surely, these and other questions must have been running through the mysterious innards of the button at a time like this. Surely.
I think the world needs more courageous buttons.
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