Clandestine

The machine operates behind a façade -- a figurative smoke screen. Seemingly taciturn, the very core of the machine is anything but. Regularly oiled and maintained by mysterious figures clad in a uniform of flesh and cotton, the cogs of the machine will continue to silently hum on until a bolt is dropped between the gears, challenging the very mechanics of the system. Eventually, one of these figures will find a way to remove the bolt and attempt to eliminate its impression. But the machine will never be the same, for the bolt has left a mark, and no amount of blood will ever quell the resonating sound that has been left; an incessant pounding like that of a drum. And over time this hidden beat will carry on, until every chest feels every beat, and this beat becomes the rhythm of a revolution.