The search for chaotic entertainment, intellectually substantive and suppressive, ended and proved empty in the mores. A half-full glass of a dead optimist pinned its shadow in a room with no-one there, the cynicism was sprawled out in an outline made of contempt, dead from new ambience and similar sentiment.
You were working on some task, shunning accompanied from outside sources, like any other task and any other life.. stumbling from dizzy spells manifested in tow with destitute capability; where brisk pace is left to stale in ritual monotony: those tireless, thinking-tired thinkers, finger-painting in greys.
Here happen visitors in a world graphed with fear and confusion, one cube full, all of them empty. We look down at slots where we put numbers, look up at slots where we find eyes. And the drone goes on as some soundproof background.. its waiting for you to listen to it, just as so, it waits for you die.
Barely familiar shadows pick up the task, dragging something old and familiar out from the humanity's tide.
While pumping blood and risk, left to abandon, soulless and sick; from landfills filled with stress follows the advice, "Run faster, find less, your life does not belong to you."
Maybe we can use this.. this great inner deceit.