You can fit, you can plug yourself in. You're an important cog. You can blaze like liquid fire through a well-oiled machine, and make your mark on the inside of someone's file cabinet. You're like candy when you're at your job. You fill the niche, it feels right. No one can do what you do.

You believe that. A self-centered chimp with a Ford Thunderbird and a helmet haircut, you rule your roost. You'll never be loved. You'll forever be on your knees listening to keyholes and scraping hairs from the carpet and wondering what's happening. All you'll ever really get is the crumbs of life.

The dull reflection of blue squares on your dead eyes and the trails of sweat from your clammy palms across grey formica is enough to wipe the purest thoughts from anyone nearby. You're not part of a bureacracy, you're an organ in the beast. Spitting out the endless stream of bile that keeps all our lives so cheerful and gay.

In South America you'd be a pack animal. In Asia you'd pull a plow. Here you just convert oxygen to carbon dioxide. It's just you against the trees.

Why?