He speaks in barcode jargon that only he understands.
He thinks in paychecks that will never come along.
He walks in a suit that becomes fused to his flesh.
A part of him.
Each day wears on, him breathing manufactured air, them profiting from each breath.
Just another workweek,
Day,
hour,
minute,
As a part of the system.
And when he sleeps,
He dreams in barcode. |
