commutilating

Thousands of drones on the road, getting to work in their economy cars with expressionless faces. Butch felt like the odd one out. He was the one who had no job to go to. No destination. Not even holidays. He had no reason to be where he was. No goal. No legitimisation. Butch would have loved to do the nine-to-five treadmill. It was soothing, numbing, killing any reflection and pain. There was no sign of life in these faces. Sure they were smiling, talking, listening to the radio, wiping the sleep from their eyes. Animals do that too. There was nothing left in them. What a brilliant thought. Butch craved it. A fulfilling job, a boring life, no pain no gain, nothing. Looking into the cars passing by he saw lifeless machines getting to their workplaces. What a brilliant prospect. No irony intended. What a brilliant way to spend one's life. Thoughtless, painless, content in their lack of humanity. People working their fat butts off are not in the position to wonder about their lives. They just go ahead, get up in the morning, go to work, come home at night, eat, shit, screw their wives, go to bed, get up in the morning, go to work, come home at night, eat, shit, screw their wives, go to bed, get up in the morning, go to work, come home at night, eat, shit, screw their wives, go to bed, get up in the morning, go to work, come home at night, eat, shit, screw their wives, go to bed, get up in the morning, go to work, come home at night, eat, shit, screw their wives, go to bed, get up in the morning, and then it's Saturday, and they go shopping and watch the game, and then it's Sunday and they read the Sunday paper and watch another game. And then it's winter and yet another year has passed. What kind of heaven is this? Paradise.