Were these endless lines real?
The waiting room stretches out in all directions. People of all possible combinations sprawl in uncomfortable plastic chairs. Looking further, the blurring, wood-toned mélange of flesh gets lost within a riot of contrasting cultural costumes.
Out in the far distance both flesh and clothes average to a sort of blue-brown taupe. Humanity it seems is quite boring when taken as a mean. He sighs again. Only in the olfactory is the average tilted towards expressiveness. A dense population of human bodies produces a truly unfortunate bouquet.
He sighs again and twists uncomfortably in that abominable chair. Why do all institutions (civic or otherwise [but civic especially]) have those same damned chairs? The same textured plastic is always molded in precise opposition to ergonomic consideration and is always poorly riveted to cheaply enameled steel tubing, always, always the same. Also, there’s those same scuffed, white vinyl tiles with the same dirty looking black specks, or perhaps the damn things just come dented and dirty.
Then there’re these lights, these infuriating lights that flicker just on the verge of one’s ability to perceive it, plus that unnerving hum; oh how that hum could drive a man to murder. How much longer? How much longer until they call for him I wonder… I wonder, why is he here?
Why am I here?
You know what else is weird? The average age in here is all wrong. It is skewed way older than I’d guess it ought to be… You don’t think…? No. Right?
Oh, wait they’re calling my number.