You are returning the milk to the refrigerator when your head begins to swim. Red shapes like semi-transparent scarves flare open in your vision, brimming over with light before they dwindle away. For a moment you think you are going to collapse. You put your hand on the counter to steady yourself. Your heart ticks down the seconds like a bomb. Then the sensation passes, and it is an ordinary day again.
The quintessential short fiction of its time, The Plastic Factory's minimalist surface sits atop a terse inventory of the inner costs of living outside the professional managerial bullet train, looking through the display windows at the swatch-life, emerging with the antithesis of the yuppie-preppy sensibility. Learn More