Written by Joshua

I A worker sat at the bottom of the stairs putting on his hole-ridden socks over his bruised and blistered feet. He had sometimes wondered why his feet had seen so much wear and tear, why his socks developed such great holes so quickly, and why the boilersuit he wore and the shoes that he was about to put on over his feet would become tattier after each day of work. His name was Michael, and he assumed his job had something to do with manual labour. He was quite broad and strong, and those qualities would surely never be put to waste by the corporation he worked for: Terrahol. Still, he never knew for sure, for he was never awake or aware of himself when he was working. He remembered from some evening a few nights before that his partner, Anna, had asked him whether the runners experienced the same thing. She asked whether they, too, would find themselves perplexed by the manner of their own state. Michael replied that he wasn’t sure. As humble workers, he thought, they could not...