We behold the 187th floor of the factory -- it's not absurdly high up under modern circumstances, but enough of a feat to conjure up a uniquely melancholic rapport. As per the cliche, it obviously only has 3 colours no matter the time of day: white grey, and dark gray. It's not a typical factory: for its outside appearance is just like any other [miscellaneous office building filled with too many floors that can't all possibly be needed, and too many "important" people that can't possibly all have important things to be doing right now].
However: The factory is only internally inhabited by a lot of autonomous machinery and, periodically, one individual (woman). As per the schedule written a long time ago and revised last Saturday in the fortnightly report (linguistic revision as per most recent company initiated people-forward communication approaches) she performs the schedule. TLDR: walk through the whole factory and write down everything of note for the weekly status report and progress update.
On this floor, her inconveniently "chic professional" high heels make a pleasantly listenable and rhythmic "clop". I'm not quite sure how she does it in her dorkish knee-length, tight-but-not-revealing, ["I mean business" but only in an "I have initiative" and not an "I have opinions and goals" kind of way] skirt, but she walks with gusto up and down the stairs and halls with productively deceptive speed. By the time she's gone through the whole schedule, it's like no time has passed. And, by the time she comes back the next day to do it all again, it's like none of the time since last time has mattered.
Every time she enters the door, she knows what she's walking into; It is only when the walks out of it that she remembers everything else she's walked out on.