What an implication. Busy Work. As if our lives aren't filled with enough stolen moments. Busy work, to keep us going inanely on, to keep us from questioning the sensibility of spending our lives doing pointless tasks. Busy work. Busy work. Fucking busy work. Cramping my forearms from incessant
(more) clicking and typing and dragging and searching and organizing all that does not need it. not really. only sort of. only to keep me busy and not question why this job, this company, even exists. To keep me from pondering whether I really need these products, whether any of us would be better off without this landscape coated in metal and concrete. To keep us all from coming to the conclusion that life could be so much better. Each moment earned with soil under our fingernails and mysticism sparking creativity in smoky forms. Busy work, to keep us distracted so when the collapse comes we'll all die at our posts, daydreaming of a different life.(less)
