Commute.

Must find sustenance.

We’ve been captive to this barren stretch of pavement for far too long.

Making bad time.

The road, full of people and things, devoid of life. The winter is going to be excruciating if we don’t reach our destination on time.

As though solace lies in wait.

Someone, somewhere is still broadcasting their thoughts. All things we know and feel; dispair, famine.

The seven o’clock news.

Like clockwork, we lurch; onwards towards our fate. A predictable outcome of unsettling, sub-par, survivability. Some would way the lucky one’s quit early.

In a five hundred dollar tie.

The push seems futile. What good can come from this slow march? There is no particular sense of light at waiting at the end of the tunnel.

The weatherman was right for once.

All the while, delusions of grandure fuel the drive. The possibilities of comfort, control, saftey; All of which are illogical, and unobtainable.

The Dream.

Once there, it’s no short of feudal enterprise. Deathmatch tactics, of one verses many. We all fight like vultures for scraps, that will never in this lifetime quench our endless hunger.

It’s only Monday.