Hannah Harmatz ‘12
you wake up every morning at 7.
You drink your generic brand coffee with low-fat milk.
you only talk about work with your wife and
school with your kids.
you shower with the same white towels,
you wear the same the pastel work clothes–
middle brown shoes and middle blue tie.
you wish you had done this, that,
in your past life to avoid this one–
comprised of weak coffee and a tan cubicle.
But that would have taken too much effort.
monotonous, tedious -
those words are just too long,
like your commute.
the same schedule becomes a shield,
a veil over your passive nature.
do you even remember
what you had for breakfast,
even though it’s always
exactly the same?
your outward robot, your inner shell.
you know the gears are turning,
occasionally changing,
but you don’t care—or, more like,
you don’t want to pay attention
you don’t know how.
until the day we all pass on
to that assimilated coffin in the
melting pot of dirt,
automatic cars, automatic people.