Each morning, I wake before God has roused
The sun,
And that is just what we must do: To complete the busy-making-madness of a job. To compose the email, to manipulate the story, to rope the client, to extol the virtues of money and shore up the pillars of industry.
Though we sigh as we do: there is no shine in an empty inbox. Not that we ever see it—
Each day, we are gaveled:
More, and greater, and bigger, and best. Which is exactly what we do, but our wrangling and sending and crafting and praising of profit is never sufficient: More, and greater, and bigger, and bester than best.
In the sands of the sun, we are erecting Ozymandias.
—fired not by passions, not by growth, not by light, but by false engines: caffeine and fear and shame.
It is 7pm on a Tuesday and I hear the sun whisper, its orange lids closing: I have risen and shone another day. So have you. Now:
Rest.
