A cold morning starts.
Coffee pouring from machines,
people mumbling "Good morning" to each other,
a routine, only one and eternal
Mind meditation, clicking, typing,
a tortured sort of zen
Small talk and fake intentions,
that one girl greeting you nicely now
while backstabbing you tomorrow in the game of office politics

5pm is overcome a dark sky
buses rolling past obliviously, the same way they've done for years now
passengers numbly scrolling through their phones,
looking for something new in a field of old

12am alone under constellations
pinpricks thousands of light years away
delivering an ominous message
everything is hazy; what is real?
This is how life was truly meant to be
if the delusional hierarchy of mental fitness didn't exist
treadmills of circular productivity,
ladders of arbitrary social status
Tomorrow is another day at work,
but why should that matter now?

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