People tap keyboards like hens in a battery pecking at grain, while Susan is heard booming telling lies of a weekend she wished she'd had ,
people's breath circulates the sealed container like a beige submarine,
being consumed and passed on with the flavour of the last mundane beverage like the teacher at schools dank coffee breath ,
dreams are shattered and like robots the repetition refolds forgetting the day before because they're all magnolia, like in a repetitive coma "no change Mrs West I'm afraid, flatlined but awake,
maybe tomorrow we will see some activity" , imaginary targets and procedures to rate one's worth, looking for praise like your egar and panting to a tennis balls that's been thrown,
to get to a month end and open the envelope to see you sold your soul for one big food shop...... And just.... existing.