The man in the suit wears his collar and lives in his fog. He misses the beauty of the world, the art, the color, the comfort. He spends 50 years in a monotonous routine so he can maybe spend 10 on his ass, if the machine doesn’t chew him up and spit him out before then. There’s no comfort even in the retirement he longs for. He looks a at his wallet while the ones he love see the sullen look in his eyes as he doubts if it will ever be enough. If he could only get his head out of the clouds, and see them as well, there he would find his comfort
moca_spaces
