Sleep isn’t just rubbed from your eyes. It’s torn. It’s ripped screaming, because it’s early and you were up late. This ungodly hour that some call morning is not a welcoming sight even if there are pale sand beaches and blue waters just beyond the window. It only makes it worse, because it’s a reminder you’re still here.
The drinks you had last night weren’t enough to transport you to someplace else. And now that someplace else is even more enticing if it doesn’t wake you up all just to attend to something on the spillway. With all the technology they have, everything that’s hollowed out this lagoon you think they could just have a drone sort it, but then you’d still have to show up to sort the damn drone.
When you get there after much grumbling you’re welcomed not by your boss or the usual crew. This time it’s the police. Or what goes for police is this corporate state. They don’t call them police, that’d be ascribing too much authority, and too many rights to the people. No, they’re the shareholder’s representatives. And they’ve cordoned off the area leading to the spillway.
The only upside to arriving as you did, and as far as you can see, is that no one’s hassled you. You’re expected, and presumable the representatives knew you were coming. So no one’s making a move to be territorial. Everyone already knows who’s who and what’s what. Except you. You don’t know why you’re there.
And then you see it.
Today’s art is courtesy of Victor Dufayard from Montreal, Canada.