Clouds have finally rolled in from the mountains, glazing the city in a thick fog as the days grow short, and it seems that with every passing minute winter winds lurch closer.
It’s a Tuesday, and I am exactly where I’m supposed to be – standing by a printer developing a fluorescent tan as warm, freshly-printed paper falls into the palm of my hand. My eyes are blank, straying through the window towards a horizon ignited by a crimson sun and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to remember the sound of my own voice.
Walking back to my cubicle, I look around – faces as expressionless as death masks bask in the glow of flat screen monitors to a soundtrack of frantically rattling keys.