Beep. Beep. Barcodes beep. I stand at the output outgiving happiness. Cars drive outside. People come and get their happiness in barcoded boxes.
Beeping again. I am tired falling into binary code. I am getting mechanic outgiving dreams. My memory leaves me: patches fade, keys get stuck, and signals die away...
Our movements are breath of the city. The more people - the heavier happiness is. Their faces seem being made of laminate. Everyone needs that box with nine letters to survive inhaling the thick air of exhausted city.
I carry their dreams in my hands and I know I am not getting anything. White stripes indicate happiness, but barcodes have more black ones. I am reading them with my eyes when scanners are silent. But there is no complete silence - people distract us. I give them the boxes without looking inside.
They rarely thank me, but often smile when I am not mistaken. I do not know what everyone is bound to. Barcodes never lie, but I may be mistaken. We are nearly machines, but so imperfect.
We remember fatigue when get new lines of boxes. We carry them up and down the stairs comparing the records and throw boxes into piles. We stumble of someone else’s dreams, but never drop anything.
We forget hunger and disease. Drink instant drinks and snack with frozen food. We are few, but we will manage. To each his own.
I want to live, but I am here to give out. People come again. I am sorry I am not one of them. Someday I will leave for the place where there are no barcodes, but eternal happiness everywhere.