Certain paths are proscribed for us in life. Despite all our efforts, we cannot stray. Forging new, unmarked roads leaves you with little more than bloody hands and flea bites. It’s best to be content with a life of opening unmarked jars, looking inside and rapidly drawing a tiny sketch of whatever you see, be it corpse or canary.
It’s best to stick with such a scheme for 50, 60, even 70 years. Even with the knowledge that most of your drawings will be immediately torn up by the next man in the line. And that those drawings that do survive will be placed in pre-stamped envelopes, alone, with no explanatory note and mailed to random addresses circled in the White Pages Directory by the man seated across from you.
You were chosen for this task, just as the other men – those responsible for ripping up your drawings, those responsible for staring, motionless, at bare lightbulbs all day, those required to go through life without use of the letters “D” and “K” – were selected for to fulfil their purpose. And in so doing, fulfil society’s purpose:
Of Not Getting In The Way.
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