There hums a fan four feet behind the chair in a closed office. Outside, the sun recedes into the end of where the eyes can reach and heat pervades the day. The bustle of traffic is as unpredictable as the flight of the geese around the neighbourhood and on the surface everything goes on as it always does, this time only with a little more gusto as commuters disperse with the wind heading somewhere, heading nowhere.

There, as usual, is a magic to the simpleness of the atmosphere, something about the order and ordinariness of the programmed chore of day in a working metropolis. In the middle of such broth of movements is a yet unknown idea bubbling around the edge. Everyone seeks it in some way or another. Some find it, and some don’t. And some don’t collide with it a few times in a day’s work. And in many other parallel worlds, there are replicas in this rote and eventuality. Only one thing stands out of the urgency of each second: the futility of it all.

There now hums more than just a whirling fan. There is music, and company, and noise – the same old rote of living.

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