A busy corner in a dark neighbourhood south-west of the city. Tall buildings with glossy facades are forming blocks of office complexes. Imagine a computer chip, magnified so many times that you can see actual people walking through the corridors. At seven o'clock, thousands of suits get up from their cubicals and find their way to the station.
Strong black coffee in a paper cup, please. I'm surprised that the guy taking my order is not a robot. Or is he? I observe the premises and take a seat by the window. I try to figure out who sings the plastic pop song that spills out of the ceiling speakers. The warm lighting seems too obviously artificial, like the last green apple in a rotten bunch.
I don't know what's going on these days. Perhaps it's the change of seasons, the remaining fatigue from the past winter months. Things aren't too bad, but they sure could be better. I feel like the way the world spins makes no sense sometimes. Most people hate what they do. What about what people really want? All that has become secondary.
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