Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.


He wakes up. There is snow still the snow it keeps snowing there will always be snow and there will never not be snow. He has a coffee and he eats some toast and he gets on the bus and he arrives at work and he learns about rotting gold filling up the arteries of the world. There is no hope. There is no end. There is an endless end ending itself on the beach of this desperate futility. There is cake in the kitchen at work. This is a delight. He eats some of the cake with a coffee that he makes for himself in the large machine that makes the coffee that is most likely the son of HAL. It is going to kill everyone one day sucking all the oxygen out of the office as it sings Row Row Row your boat softly into infinity. There is weather everywhere. He learns about beard implants. Beard implants. There is such a thing as beard implants. He has never needed a beard implant. He has spent his life in a world in which beards and hairyness was not looked upon with delight but with disgust and now as he gets old it is all the rage the in thing all the cool kids are doing it and the most popular implant is the Brad Pitt because of course it is why would it not be and why does he feel this rising sense of bitterness at the world and at the past and at his history he does not know but the cake helps. He looks at the faces of strangers and he can tell nothing for certain. He believes he sees tiredness and boredom and sadness and some happiness but these are all projections he is none the wiser as to their internal lives and their hopes and their dreams and then he plays some more Candy Crush. He watches as all the cameras in the world start losing control and taking pictures and recording things and storing them and a turning into a heaving gelatinous blob of oozing images blinking whirring collating and preparing for some future court date where you will be found guilty after all the evidence they collected is presented to the robot judge. Then he eats a sandwich and then he goes to sleep.

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