Parade of Disgust

They all shuffle in reeking of desperation and self disgust that even they can't seem to identify as anything other than a vague distasteful odor in the air. They try hard to find something to anger them, to give them purpose, but all they find is a deep hatred of their own responisbility and related servatude. "This is not what the womb promised me." Echoing over and over in each of their heads in a voice so quiet and constant that long ago it became as unhearable as the sound of the blood rushing in their ears. Joyless lumps set to their tasks with a flawed automation and for every lump there is a little peice of dream that dies as, for another five days, they sell their souls.