Awaken.

Sleep.

Alarm.

The man switches it off.

Eat.

Work.

Eat.

Sleep.

Alarm.

The man switches it off.

Eat.

Work.

Eat.

Sleep.

Alarm. The man sighs as he switches it off.

Eat. A bowl of soggy flakes. Milk that’s almost expired.

Work. A programmer. The job designed to “keep humanity running,” as the city deems it. He calls it the job designed to “keep humanity on loop.”

Eat. This time, rice. Vegetables. Slightly wilted. Packaged chicken. Bland.

Sleep. Eight hours exactly. He sleeps in bed number 472 on floor 7 in building 11.

Alarm. The man switches it off. As does every individual in the building for their respective alarms. As does every individual in all the buildings.

Eat. Soggy flakes again. The man stares dejectedly at the bowl, the milk almost gray in the dim light. The man looks up and tries to make eye contact with a coworker. Anyone. But they shuffle past with their own flakes and milk with the same dejected expression plastered on their faces.

Work. They all walk to the room, where they sit in front of devices and spend the next nine hours running the program, helping others in the world find routine, find survival. The man stares at the screen, his hands moving automatically, instinctually. His mind wanders.

Eat. He looks down at the rice. There are carrots this time. And corn with shredded beef. It is bland again, with not even an ounce of flavoring. He slows as he takes a bite, trying to find a different spice, something that entices him. There is nothing. He tries to talk to the coworker next to him but receives only a blank stare. The man turns back to his food and tries it again, but this time, he imagines a hotness, a flavor that can’t be described. He can taste it on his tongue. He savors it, lingering just a minute longer than he’s used to.

Sleep. He crawls into his blanket on his hard bed. Beneath him, above him, and to either side are more beds. They line the walls like shelving units. Each bed is deadly silent; he cannot even hear another soul breathe. He lies there, awake, looking into the darkness. And then, without even thinking about it, he hums. He does not know the tune. But he hums the notes all the same, rising in pitch and then lowering and then growing louder and quieter. He hums for several minutes. There is not another movement, not another sound. Eventually, his humming fades to silence, and he falls asleep.

Dream. This is new. He is flying. There are valleys and valleys of green hills spread before him as far as the eye can see. He spreads his arms, welcoming the cool air high in altitude, feeling the sun warm his body, the aroma of fresh pine needles wafting from the forest below. The sky is a striking blue, so blue that it looks fake, a paint splattered across a page. He flies and dreams up and away, far away…

Alarm. It rings. And rings. And rings. Eventually, another being comes to stand beside him. A woman. She turns off the alarm, her eyes and face blank. The man thinks she is pretty, with long auburn hair and high cheekbones. She looks at the man with dead eyes before turning away to her position. The man sighs. He had wanted to ask her for her name. But then he remembered they no longer use that system anymore. He would not see her again.

Eat. The man imagines again. This time, the bowl is full to the brim of fresh sliced fruit––bananas and strawberries and blueberries and raspberries. There are even strange fruits, like dragon fruit and jack fruit and mangosteens. The bowl bursts with wild colors across the entire spectrum. When he lifts the spoon to his mouth, he can taste the sweetness of the fruits, the tang. He closes his eyes, smiling as he chews, envisioning a meal unlike any other that he has experienced.

Work. He stares at the computer. His hands are still at his sides. The screen is black. Blank. He does not move. Slowly, he looks to his left. A man typing fast, his face glued to the screen. The man looks to his right. A woman, also typing quickly, staring straight at the screen. He watches her for a moment, focusing on her face. Ah, yes. He knew it. She does not blink. She has not blinked for many minutes. “Hello?” He says. His voice is raspy from disuse. But the woman types on. So does the man. Neither look at him. Neither acknowledge his greeting.

Eat. Dinner. Alone, again. The man is tired from being alone. He looks for her, the woman with the auburn hair. There. Cautiously, he takes his food and sits beside her. She says nothing. She doesn’t notice him. Slowly, he eats his rice and fish, giving her space, wondering if he should say a word or two. But when he opens his mouth, no words come out. The woman continues to stare down at her food, moving her spoon from her bowl to her mouth robotically. The man walks sadly away, realizing that their silence is one that will never be broken.

Sleep. More humming. Longer this time. A familiar tune... he cannot place it. But it is soft and quiet and beautiful. It reminds him of someone. A face. A young boy's face, from long, long ago... staring into a mirror... a smile...

Dream. Again. This time, soaring over the ocean. The waves lull beneath him. He can see a world of life beneath the rolling waters. Dolphins break the surface. Schools of fish swirl below. Turtles stroll leisurely through the water. There are so many colors, again; blues and greens and purples and yellows and oranges and reds. A whole world of color.

Alarm. The man switches it off immediately. He rolls out of bed. He looks down at his uniform, the constant attire that all programmers must adorn. It is gray. His shirt is gray; his pants are gray; his shoes are gray.

He walks to the eating area. There. The refrigerators. He opens them. There are shelves of identical ingredients. Milk for the cereal. Bland vegetables. He searches, staring for something, anything… There is nothing. He walks to the eating area. He sits down in front of his bowl. He sees the utensils in the middle of the table. An idea begins to sprout. He takes the knife from the utensil pile. He glances around. Everybody stares at their food silently.

Quickly, he draws the knife across the back of his hand, biting down on his lip to hide any cry of pain.

There. Red.

He drags his hand across his shirt, until a red streak appears across the gray material.

He looks down at the color. It is bright. Vivid. A red streak against the gray. The only color in this entire room.

He stands up, and goes to work.