The Grave with No Name

No one has a name in the age of soulless creation and labor for pennies.

A spinning clock chimes to wake citizens for a labor shift. Sleepy night air clings to the sky as humans slink out of bed. They rub the dreams from their eyes with fists, and form some kind of revolution against their heavy limbs sinking into the ground. The graveyard is lit with fire bugs and swarming with biotronics. They watch the sidewalks, always a slow pitch hum following them, looking left to right with one large eye. There is a newly dig grave today, recently filled. A security box with one worker present is the only living presence. He is asleep. A biotronic will soon find him, do not worry. The new grave has overturned dirt layered upon layer over a bakelite coffin. Above her slumbering head is written: Unknown, A Producer of Pamphlets at Factory #13.

{cover art: Interior with an Easel, Bredgade 25 by Vilhelm Hammershøi}