Mumbles. Part One.

"Two-thousand hours of each year, that is the amount of time the average working person spends at their jobsite."

He stood there. A sad, spiteful smirk on his face. A lesser version of the face a man makes when he finds that his wife has been making runs to his best friends bedroom while she 'takes the dog out on walks'. Despair, and disbelief; jumbled into a torn mask.

His eyes scanned the room. Looking for recognition, for acknowledgement, for life. For something.

Nothing.

His vision darted. Searching each of their pupils. But they sat there, everyone of them. Vision robbed by the black hole of their computer screens. They sat there. Typing. Lost.

He continued his talk.

"The division of labor. Marx argued that this economic plan would turn us into machines, just replacable hardware. No longer is there a master of the craft, now only nuts and bolts, good for one purpose; that which they are assigned. Without the puzzle and passion of the full product, we lose purpose for both puzzle and passion. Art, beauty, appreciation. All of these are inevitably burned out by the daily grind of placing those loafs of bread in the same plastic bag in the same manner, in the same hours, in the same days. Year after year. There is no need for motivation, for desire, or exertion. Your life is there, comfortably layed out in front of you on a plastic tray."

He paused for a moment.

His eyes scanned again. Nothing. No acknowledgement, no life.

And they sat there tapping, typing. Fixated and lost.