The morning carried with it a distressing chill, suspending breath, blurring vision. All was silent, save the spluttering of a few cold motors that coughed and choked their way along great concrete veins, which soon would suffer varicose, as sun broke the spell of moons slumber, calling those tired eyes to open wide and guide the sullen groans of tedium, that inevitably drown out the sound of whispered resistance.
Rejoice as the machine takes its first step and howls.
At this hour, the shadows cast by moon light, star light, street light; dance wildly in the ballroom of imagination, omitting for a pure, sweet moment, their stale, frail nature. Humbled by nothing, this machine marches on. In place of serenity, comes guttural rumbles of hive like obedience, the faceless beige blurs wander mindlessly through halls of illusion and deceit, stumbling over one another, prodding and being prodded into anxious frenzies, swallowing whole the gift of life, digesting and excreting the by-product of slug existence.
Gorging themselves on the fruits of gutter dreams, suspended as though they are nothing but pale, sad marionettes, the puppeteer bent in half behind thick curtains, reeking of cheap liquor and stale tobacco, contorts his face into a thousand smiles, salivating at the thought of this collective misery, this unbearable madness that spreads like pestilence, from person to person, hollowing out the eyes, stealing the soul and stuffing it into dirty pockets full of loose change and lint. His cackle awoke the behemoth, slowly dragging itself in time to meet the sun, whose light illuminates nothing but the recently polished shackles of slavery, a choir of insanity sings an ode to death, and so the day begins.