Every night, six ten on the dot came the weary woman, collecting fragments of thought. She pulled her green dumpster, always on time, waiting for the dependable same-old twelve chimes. Only then would she leave, take her uniform off, then the next day again, dancing with the clock. But some days she'd pick up litter from a genius's mind, and astounded she'd be with her new precious find. She placed these in her lilac box, saved for the best of the best, then, preparing for the next shift. she would take a much needed rest.