The Attention Deficit Diaries (Pt. II - Merciless Lee and the Factory)

What was once the swift and graceful motion of a feathered utensil elegantly grazing the surface of hemp scrolls is now a rattling box of keys with no resemblance to a musical instrument, in appearance or in range of auditory pronouncements.  It is a sinister cackling, but it gets the job done.  Can I follow some rules and disregard others without being called a hypocrite?  Can I be spontaneous, yet  civilized?  Can my memes of expression reside somewhere between quantum physics and theocratic fascism?  Fucking Lee.  Always looking over my shoulder.  Everyone has a Lee in their life.  He's not your boss, but he keeps you in line.  He's not your boss's boss either.  He is an independent, enigmatic entity that asks you strange questions, micromanages, and frequently adjusts his glasses.  He prowls the freshly waxed, tiled halls of this stainless-steel jungle, florescent bulbs bearing down and illuminating his nitrite-pink forehead.  Compulsive profanities lurk just behind his eyes, as furry forearms sway to and fro, like those of a more rudimentary primate, an old-fashioned ape.  Lee seems vaguely inhuman, and has likely been contracted by a sub-sub-contractor.  He is a merciless mercenary.  One-hundred and twenty-three degrees Celsius.  You nervously twist your blonde, brunette, and red facial hair.  Only one piece of gum left.  You have to wait until the machine cools down to forty, so you have a few minutes to consider how many people might die today, how many will be born, how many will have profound realizations, how many will give their lives for something they believe in, and how many of them will have been wrong.  Dead wrong.  And you still have time to forget about Lee.  But I am not satisfied.  Am I being held captive by arbitrary grammatical laws?  Am I trapped in some literary Abu Ghraib?  Is this a rare and unprecedented case of Stockholm Syndrome?  Maybe if I rhyme some of the time I'll be fine...