increased export pressure, bone level

Take a cardboard box on the office floor (grainy and close), the split open compartment of the case frothing with wires and clips from the top. Grab the exacto from the ceramic bowl that is supposedly shaped like a woman. Hold it like a silver pencil, the blade angled.

Laying on belly, You have a set of door makers. One hand out.
First you score the first side. Dragging the blade down one inch carefully, quickly. Flick.
Then you parallel that, more thoroughly. Flick flick.
Along the top, slice. Bottom, slice.

Take a pin from one of the little bowls that hold an inevitable collection of left-over screws and safety pins.
The wire cutter is there beside it. Clip the long metal stick as close as possible to the round head. Tap that into the general vicinity of a doorknob, if this outline in cardboard constitutes a doorway. Flick flick.
Punch the door open and toggle it with a finger, rocking it gently on the intact layer of paper.

Now that door in cardboard (like a dollhouse spread in front of a woman laying on her stomach) becomes just a black line like an open circuit diagram on a white piece of paper. The stick men on one side are black also, but there is one red man at each door. The balance count of beings on both sides is fairly equal, and everyone scuttles between the doors.

Pause. The red men collect and close each of their doors. The pressure builds on the black side. The doors like circuits open again and hang signs. The black side forms lines that drain through the funneled channels at an even pace and the red men walk away, leaving a black man in each of their places. The door makers head for the back and start making chairs as the black stick figures begin to pile up waiting until it's a swarm that looks more like ants than people.

So what are we looking at?
We... are just looking at a lot of open doors. Thoughtlessly twirling the silver rod on a helplessly questioning raised hand. Ouch.
Closing the hand tight, fingers clenching against seeing the damage, still laying beside the door.

The tip of a bent paper-clip shows at the edge of the door as it closes apparently on itself. There isn't anyone else there.
The pace this time is more closely approximate to an EKG meter, the blip matching the stumbles in lousy heels. Horizontal then an upward angle and they peak the stairs into the apartment's main room. As they take the first steps, she leads or turns aside from the other two and rushes both hands along the sides of her skull producing manic tufts of hair. As the gesture starts, just as her hands raise toward that glamorous Mr T-esque styling, the other two take a sharp look at each other. Caught between smiles and surprise they look around the room in a paired swivel. The usual piles of books have begun to disappear into the open mouths of cardboard boxes. Two cables have apparently been ripped off from their brackets along the walls, the excess tied coiled and smoothed but now stretching like webbing through the air. The blinds have been lowered and twisted to a degree that would let sunlight in while blocking view of the outdoors- an atypical arrangement.

Look- hand on the edge of the table and the light beside the austere chair making a shadow from the cleavage between her fingers. Only a section of her hand shows skin color and the other hand is pointing.
Look- it's shaped like a person isn't it? A person on their hands and knees. He sighs at her and grips her wrist, turning the hand.

Where is it? She laughs at that.

Well, let me see what else I can make. No... nothing there now.

Alright, then we'll go. You don't have anything around do you? Cookies?

Cookies! Did I tell you that I did? Did you really ask me that or did I imagine it? They don't have any protein, anyway....

Cookies then, alright, but you seem sad. You're alright?

SO they watch her smiling and she walks them to the door and latches it and looks up the dark stairs.

There are two paper cups resting on a second step, a spool of climbing rope with the clip dangling on the edge of the railing. A silver helmet. A lovely pair of walking shoes and the curling tendril of one shredded piece of green paper. As though this staircase was actually a display case which would be lit up on the occasion rather than cluttered. Stepping back with a wince as though all of these things are about to fall down on her head, she pulls on a pair of warm ugly boots and unlocks the door again, going out also. Enough time has passed to allow for quiet, solitary walking.

With the sound of the latch turning behind her the phone begins ringing and the caller id display is there with an easy number. It has the consistent look, a sort that might show as 'unknown' on some screens. A number such that someone in a hurry or feeling unfriendly could dodge if they were inclined, without worrying about or expecting too much trouble from. She isn't in the room, but she would probably answer anyway. It's quiet other than the noise of the ringer.

In another hand, the same number show on the caller id on a cell phone in the gallery. The group is smaller, less a party and more a wine social. The centerpiece is a molded sculpture of a woman's head, robotic squirrels creeping along on tracks that spiral up her towering beehive and then zip down the back behind one of her ears. A bright multidimensional alternative to a Candyland board game, slides set from particular spaces. The movements are lurching, then they tip down their metal faces as though hiding or rubbing their own noses on the track, or maybe smelling her hair and swooning. However, they fall head first.

The blond girl of the blue dress and agitation is answering the cell, now wearing a darker top with a high collar. One eyebrow arches and she's asking the caller to repeat themselves aggressively while pushing out of the room. She brushes past the hair sculpture very closely and someone nearby reacts in what appears nearly a muscular explosion, arm reaching out immediately behind her a bit below waist height, gripping as though the squirrels will rain into his hands.

What happened? Another, looking after the cell user who is walking through the door loudly repeating the word 'What?' as though something ridiculous has been said.

The guy who'd reached to stabilize the statue has leaned onto the track and the mark of the creatures cranking hasn't stalled. He's let out a fierce yell, a second standing beside him pulling at his sleeve with both hands.
We might need some help dealing with these guys.

Across the room someone lunges for the circuit switch which would probably be a big red round button at that point, obvious regardless of quantity of whiskey consumed. Almost every light in the places goes out, beside some dim bulbs encased in punctured and carved aluminum can cages. Every single person in the room seems to have shut off as well, frozen still. A thunk as the featured mechanism, which has stopped, drops a tottering piece.