Black suits. Black dresses. Like automatons they march out of the train. Taking the escalator out of the deep dark tunnels, they blink when they hit the warm sunlight. Coffee time. Tired, you see. Their lives don’t energize them. They need a constant intravenous drip of caffeine into their veins.
Elevator music.
Sitting in the silver towers amidst a concrete jungle. Lunch is plastic. They look out the window, dreaming what it would be like — to be out there.
Ring, ring. Come to the meeting.
Shallow superficial customer. He’s got a crisp suit and tie, yet the apple is maggot-ridden. How can you serve him? What can you do to please him? The futility of squelching maggots. This is why you got the Ivy League education. This is why you went to college. Isn’t it?
Night is falling. You’ve died for the last 12 hours in the office. Time to go home to your material things.
Rush, rush. Beep, beep.
At home at last! A house (mortgaged), a wife (with a 50% divorce rate), possibly children (Don’t disturb me. I’m hooked up to virtuality.), maybe a car (that guzzles gas).
Dinner. Dinner. Microwave ding.
Sleep? There is no sleep. Squelching Mr. Customer’s maggots preoccupies your mind.
Toss and turn. Toss and turn.
Ring! Morning time. Groggy mind. Television blaring. No time to shower. Leave home without saying good-by. The kids aren’t interested anyway.
Black suits. Black dresses. Like automatons they march out of the train…
