Hell hath risen for us humble warehouse workers, now beginning to witness the unempathetic behemoth of consumerism at its most bloodthirsty. Early on our trek across the infernal path of tearing and wrenching hands, our system for weathering the storm collapsed on fate's whim, dooming us to an existence spent awake in a nightmare where our voices and stories may not escape.
Long ago, I promised to withstand this purgatory of purchases, rather than take my gild and vanish. Thus, my head and hands are locked away in the void of toil, my spirit, crumbling at frozen clocks, dull white lights, and the same damned songs on the warehouse radio.
We lack the allies to overcome this test of wills at the moment, so I pray I may see the lights of other spirits, kindred and diligent, but who does one trapped in the underworld, amongst the walking dead, pray to?
I fear I cannot last long in this hollow environment. The journey hath already pecked away at my strength and mental fortitude, leaving me on the shocking brink of utter madness. Now, I look at ropes and knots as friends to take me away from here, though I acknowledge the visions as nothing more than childish frustration at the reality millions must live through, likely far worse than mine.
I apologize for being unable to breach the surface, my absence, as well as my grim ramblings.
I am fine, but I really hate my job right now.
