Post by account_disabled on Dec 12, 2023 22:51:53 GMT -6
Here they are one after the other, parading like ants along the road. They are them and they are many today: pissers, toothless, idiots, limping, vegetal, shapeless, crippled and macrocephalic abortions. Zero workforce. My whip cracks in the cold silence of the morning. Not a voice, however, just the dull noise that tears the air and my smile that widens as I see them advance with more conviction. Towards the Last Room. For hours the smoke has been rising to the sky, a gray column against the black of the heavy clouds. Sporadic flashes electrify the atmosphere and for a moment the Tower is illuminated, a momentary apparition in the night. In the canteen we laugh.
Reading the last thoughts of the rejected ones is always fun. It's like seeing celluloid figures of the past. We feel their fears, we retrace their lives in the moment in which the floor opens and the bodies fall Phone Number Datadown into the furnace. The smoke rising to the sky brings with it the smell of those bodies consumed by the flames, the cries of suffering that fade away in a distressing echo. The ashes will settle elsewhere, far away. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust was once said. Maybe that's what they were referring to. The morning is gloomy. Wrapped in the cloak, I wait for a new group to emerge from the clinic, where those reported will be declared rejected or revisable. Shortly before, there had been a problem with the furnace's ignition system.
Fixed in a few minutes. For a moment I feared I would have to stay here in the afternoon too, as happened last month. Alone, among all those rejects who stare at you with vacant, fearful, sometimes pleading eyes. Because there is someone who suspects that the whole thing is not painless. Some people still have something working in their brain. Here they are. There are few, compared to yesterday. Better, I'll disconnect first. The piss-takers are always among the first. Old bodies bleached by time, their underwear yellowed and damp, smelly. I hate them more than others. I move my arm decisively. The air rings with the crack of the whip and the feet seem to fly on the road to the Tower.
Reading the last thoughts of the rejected ones is always fun. It's like seeing celluloid figures of the past. We feel their fears, we retrace their lives in the moment in which the floor opens and the bodies fall Phone Number Datadown into the furnace. The smoke rising to the sky brings with it the smell of those bodies consumed by the flames, the cries of suffering that fade away in a distressing echo. The ashes will settle elsewhere, far away. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust was once said. Maybe that's what they were referring to. The morning is gloomy. Wrapped in the cloak, I wait for a new group to emerge from the clinic, where those reported will be declared rejected or revisable. Shortly before, there had been a problem with the furnace's ignition system.
Fixed in a few minutes. For a moment I feared I would have to stay here in the afternoon too, as happened last month. Alone, among all those rejects who stare at you with vacant, fearful, sometimes pleading eyes. Because there is someone who suspects that the whole thing is not painless. Some people still have something working in their brain. Here they are. There are few, compared to yesterday. Better, I'll disconnect first. The piss-takers are always among the first. Old bodies bleached by time, their underwear yellowed and damp, smelly. I hate them more than others. I move my arm decisively. The air rings with the crack of the whip and the feet seem to fly on the road to the Tower.