Once again: same old, same old. Ants scuttling off to work for a queen they never see who is omni-present, yet nowhere. And for what? I get to work. My 1x1 meter cubicle becomes an egg. At night I hatch and return home just to die in front of the T.V. Survivor sucks. And as I incubate in the cubicle of sorrow, while the glare of the flourescent lights dry out my eyes and the airconditioning system transports millions of unseen germs throughout the building, I realise: I am just a fucking barcoded number.
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