They would rise in unison, walk around like ghosts and would fall into their chairs as if controlled by a remote. Their big hopeless eyes would stoop with them in their dullness. Their bleak lashes would then flap occasionally to reveal more dead inside – a skewed image of what fallen dreams look like. Crushed hopes seem to be churning in there, under dozen onuses.

They would be there every day. Every single day! Even when the rooster would forget to sing dawn in, they would punch in time as if that’s the only thing their time could do and the only thing it could do to them – Log them into a system they have been force fed.