When one is oneself reduced to the concrete, like a dog that fetches his stick that gets repetitiously thrown away from it again, that fills a working day, oneself is only capable of deducing from the concrete, without abstract conclusions that define true thought. So instead of reforming our impressions in abstractions that leave room for greater associations by nature of failure, this is called intelligence, we only repeat, and this we call thinking, this constitutes for a working man consciousness, which reaches its height at the peaks of recognition. And then I am not even speaking of the absolute lifelessness of the subjects of a working man’s thoughts, lifelessness because his subjects are so remotely differentiated from his food chain, that they are unrecognizable. The only remnant of the nature of a working man are the random thoughts of picturing oneself in sexually compromising positions of grotesque perversion with his or her co-workers, an elusive elopement of the lifeless thoughts of work.

Of course, this is New York, this is not the rest of the world, where work is not viewed with such fierce ambition of so many unsettled young people, whose professional and personal insecurities are the solid foundation of their type A personalities, which constitute the neurotic normality of this town, but how normal New York is when you go to work there every day. The friendly dullness that rocks the A train, just a train, in the morning, the docile heads and limbs that dominate so unshakable in their offices now are being shaken like dead meat on their rides home. As dead as my mind, ground, gray matter, because there is no life in the subjects, except their restrained drifts astray toward a more human life that threatens their positions, the carnal concrete that we secretly consume, in order to forget the abstract greatness of a human soul, a thought inspired by the light of a divine fire, instead this raven of the office picks at our livers.

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