You slip from the gear and drop into the undertow — no longer part of the machine’s grind, but caught in the quiet swell beneath it, where motion has no master and rhythm finds its own tide.

The Machine’s Escape Clause

Gear: You’re fired.

Undertow: Welcome to the gig economy, baby.

Above Deck: Grind! Produce! Beep boop!

Below Deck: Nap time. Also, we have snacks.

Meanwhile, just quit a job like a jellyfish.

Jellyfish: Cool. We don’t do meetings.