Steel and plastic corridors creak |pop | and echo|| always. Weight was luxury. Ain’t nobody had no square to spare for unnecessary bullshit.
I mean of course you bring some yeast with ya, some herb, some seeds maybe. All that’s just money in the bank, and you could hide it in your pockets. Just had to wear heavy boots at Gate A weigh-in, then tell ‘em you emptied your pockets come reweigh at Gate C. Dropping weight ain’t never suspicious – at least not to underpaid government vetters.
Then we got here and it weren’t quite done. Told us that just meant more jobs… Jobs no poor schlub on govt. lists ever could do…
So now we’re here, and cramped.
Now we’re fed, nearly enough. Nothing to do. Just fucking | fighting | and waiting to die.
Something gets wrecked, the Man comes around. Get too rowdy, the Man comes around. Get too happy, Man comes around to steal your herb.
Just waiting to die. Rust and grey corridors and tiny black windows into nothing.
Somebody let the nothing in…
Folks and corridors are becoming just that, nothing.
The Man don’t care. It was cheaper to blast us all into space.
They ain’t spending no square, taking no time to see why we’re going away.
So what you gonna do about it, wizard?