The Island.

Acceleration. The fucking noise.

Bludgeoning. Forced obligations of frequently dubious relevance and importance. Absurdity ensues. And in all this process, beauty... true fleeting, fragile beauty emerges. Completely at random.

You want to cling to the beauty. To bring it close and profess your love. You suddenly have so much love to give. But your desperately grasping fingers only caress what most resembles quickly collapsing sand.

And then you have to return to your quote-unquote real life.

You can't talk to anyone at your breaks at your job. It's not a rule they devised; you are just incapable.

You find yourself, more and more, escaping to the island.

It doesn't make any sense, when you think about it. Someone, somewhere just stuck this strange median in the (what seems like) endless industrial park which contains your cube-like building, and the cube-within-a-cube-within-a-cube you shuffle into, day after day. This strange, egg shaped median with real grass and one single tree, in the center of an endless sea of asphalt.

You sit there, under that out-of-place tree, and you read. And you secretly wish you really were stranded there, not realizing you really are.

Stranded.