Serioulsy.
Here we sit, chained and contained, in a world of paper pushing and number crunching.
A world where the right pair of pants are required, and the comfort of home must be left behind.
Windows must be shut otherwise us children may get excited about the nice day outside.
Files are passed by through systems and hands, everyone touching them, but never holding them dear.
Why is it that the squeaky wheel gets the oil, and the others are left to continue to grind away into nothingness in their silent throes of agony?
My cubicle is the extension of my personality, but tailored to the coporate regulations of "This is RIGHT, This is NOT RIGHT!".
A new religion without the figurehead, Sisyphus trying to find the hill only to have to fill out in triplicate the forms for the rock, which are on backorder anyways.
Controlled entrance, controlled exit with no real escape but the dim glimmer of retirement, or my ship coming in...and naval taxes are a bitch.
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