Nine to Five 

The routine remained rote. Boxes were lined up in a somewhat docile arrangement, and their lids were popped open. As the synthetic odor of bubblewrap sizzled in the air, the people became drawn to them. They were drawn like flies to a blue bulb that burned incessantly. Their numbers multiplied and eventually they consumed the pathways and roads, congesting them with phlegm and clean clothing. 


The people looked upon the boxes and saw their futures, their wants, and even their fears. Each one was uniquely different, shining with many hues and shades, varying in size and dimension, bending this way and that, yet they were all boxes. They were all made of the same cheap material. 




The people didn't pay attention to that. They were too busy waiting for the sun to rise, perky and stretching away the anxious night prior. Almost reflexively, they scuttled into their holes, each to their own, each being sucked up and swallowed into those thin bowels. A moment of reprieve was met by a gust of wind and the streets seemed clean for a moment. The roads weren't littered with trash and the sun wasn't glowing red or brown - it was just glowing. Unfortunately, it was in these boxes that time was forgotten, and so it passed at an incredible rate. 




In what seemed like a few moments, the people came flooding out from the boxes in an orderly disarray of heavy eyes and tired legs, pouring from the seams and soaking the cardboard floors - as if they had been submerged for too long and needed to breathe. By nightfall they gathered around pits of neon, drinking and eating, attempting to recuperate. The colors were almost bright enough to distract them from their exhaustion. As night grew darker, the people could only hope that the boxes would be dry enough the next day to bear the weight of their callused feet. 


































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