With the suicide-rate increasing, you think they’d reconsider beige as the default colour for office interiors. Beige. Even the word sounds miserable.

What child ever dreamed of an office job? Are poorly drawn stickmen struggling with the photocopier across the fridges of England? Do crayons come in beige?

Nobody wants this. Animals stay in the rainforest to avoid this:

The state-of-the-art coffee machine reserved solely for clients. The artisan windows you’re not allowed to open. The award-winning fluorescent lights you can not dim. The designer sofas you’re banned from sleeping on. Your own personal cubicle and it’s smaller than a toilet. Congratulations.

We used to run with wolves.

It’s amazing what people will sacrifice for a little safety.

UV light can’t travel through glass, so even if you’re sat next to a window mid-July, you might as well be operating out of a bunker.

Lack of Vitamin D has paled my skin, the rings under my eyes are permanent, my legs are no longer for running, my lower-back creaks and my social skills are waning.

I’m the colour of the walls.

Beige: The colour of boredom; the colour of man.

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Millions of years of evolution, civilisations built and destroyed, unfathomable planes of human cognition explored and this is where we’re at? This is the future we’ve heard so much about? This is the best we can do? Really?

You wake up too early in the flat that costs too much.

You travel to work in silence.

You breathe the air that is poisoned.

You spend the daylight hours indoors.

You perform tasks that are of zero benefit to you personally.

And you sit.

You sit down. All day. Lingering.

You wait for your time to pass.

So why aren’t you panicking? Why don’t you quit immediately? Why don’t you just walk out? You know it’s a scam. You know 8 hours of work isn’t worth the 3 hours at home later. Everyone else is a liar or a maniac but you know what you know and that’s enough. You know the truth, and people who know the truth should have nothing to fear. What are you doing here? What are you doing with your time? What are you actually doing?

This is not TV.

YOU HAVE TO REALISE THAT THIS IS ACTUALLY YOUR LIFE AND IT IS HAPPENING TO YOU RIGHT NOW AND THAT YOU ARE GOING TO DIE RAILING INSIDE IT.

This is your spot on Planet Earth and you’re wasting it. This is your time in the cosmos and it’s running out. This is your riskless, subjugated existence; your purgatory of beige, so boring it’s giving you dementia.

But you do it. You do it all. Without question.

Why?

So you can pay rent on the flat you were never in.

How did our parents sign off on this?

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If you ever retire, what will you have?

Vague memories of a family you never saw.

A hollow life you never had the time to live.

A coffin.

Your first-class ticket to the void. Great. I hope it was worth it.

When I die, I want to be ground up and fed to all those KFC chickens who never saw the light of day. I want to be mashed into pulp and stuffed through the wires so that some inflamed, half-image of a bird can peck away at my soul. I want to introduce myself into the food-chain. I want people receiving letters. I want families to know their children are cannibals.

I want an inquiry.

We eat the chicken. The chicken eats us. It’s the honourable thing to do.

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If you press the keys on your keyboard for long enough in the correct order, you will become a millionaire. You could write a novel or make trades on the stock-market or buy and sell antiques or whatever the fuck.

But you don’t.

The collective knowledge of the human race is at your fingertips and you’re blowing it.

The infinity-machine exists and we refuse to use it. Why?

Because we are not winners. We picked the wrong numbers. We fell at the last hurdle. We will never write the complete works of Shakespeare. We are the infinite other monkeys; the failures. And our overturned, unused typewriters have faeces mashed between the keys.

A trained monkey could do my job.

A trained monkey is doing my job.

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