Excerpt from the Short Story 0:00
The world is too full. She’s been crammed with creatures, stuffed to her teeth with sickly, sweaty things, and she hates it. Fake God, does she hate it. The poor thing rotates with a limp now, and her lungs are full of rotten, rust-colored dirt––the color of an industry. And here you come, your arms swinging but only barely, stopped mid-gait by the hot bodies around you. Your eyes are halfway open. Or closed. You’re tired, but you’re tired every day these days, aren’t you? It’s a side effect of living, but you think it’s just your office job.
I’ll tell you: it isn’t.
Ruthless people; someone’s elbow in your stomach and someone’s shoulder in your left lung. Your hands are millimeters away from that man’s ass. But it doesn’t matter. No one can feel anyone else anymore anyhow. You’re tired, you’re all tired, and everyone is only focused on heading home and getting enough time in bed before having to start the next identical day. It’s a miserable life for you folk, you tacky, pitiful bipeds. You all spend your todays trying to engineer tomorrow.
I’ll tell you: it’s already passed you by.
And so you slither your way through the crowd, ducking through arms and knees and the occasional crotch. Your apartment is close, smack dab in the middle of the city, and all you can think about is your microwave dinner for one. Mmm, those nuked powder-potatoes sure taste great, don’t they? You like to think they do. They’re better than the taste of the water you burn.