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Apr 2020
Brains are fickle things
Mine is a skyrise
With fifty floors

There is an open sign
It reads:
twenty-four hours,
seven days a week,
no rest.

Seven thousand zealots
Devoutly at their keyboards
Tap, tap, tap,


Each floor oscillates in rhythmic unison
With the pulse of their caffeine ridden bodies


“Tell The Boss”

“Have you talked to The Boss?”

Whispers emerge:

“The Boss can’t appreciate our work”

“She is lazy”

“Our ideas are worthless then”

“I hate her”

Work isn’t mandatory, but it won’t stop. It can’t stop.
They work too quickly for me.

Robert brings me his last report.

“You are undeserving of this place - of our ingenuity - a waste of its capabilities”

Ashamed, The Boss hangs her head.
Written by
Carlota S  25/F
     --- and Fawn
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