When Im in the city, for my work, I walk fast. Always. Im never in a hurry but I always walk fast. Because the city is in a hurry. In a hurry to get wherever its going, to be biger and faster and scarier. Becuase the city is scary. Standing bold. We dont work for a company or a firm, we work for the city. We are its minions. Slaves to the concrete.
I dont work here because I like it, i thought I would, before I started, but I dont. Buildings snear at me to look down on me, blocking the sun, menacingly, blocking the sun. Even the windows, the windows give nothing away, reflecting our own scared faces. Taunting us with our own face. I wonder what would happen if we smashed all the windows, poked holes in them, laughed that they were broken. Do you think they would frown? Be ashamed that we punctured its facade? Feel nude and fall down? Its insides bourn out for us to stare at?
The people, the city people, they want to look strong, they want to look like masters. Minions thought they are. They don't realise that they too, are slaves to the concrete. The concrete takes us over, makes hairs turn grey, our faces grey and peaky, even our suits, black and white, that makes grey. I'd like to count the grey hairs on this city, every one of them. I'd like to count the progress of our building masters.
Nothing sways here, so many things move but othing sways. The cars and the people, they are stiff, walk stiff, drive stiff, smile stiff, "thank you for this moring coffee, hi, I'm stiff." Id like to see them sway. Just once, see everyone sway and dance. And then sleep. These minions need sleep.
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