Another chapter that contains a clear message. Enjoy, hopefully.

The air is pungent with boredom and spite, with a bit of anguish mixed in for good measure.

I hear a faint mumbling of words. It is coming from the front of the room. Their contents are not true.

The people in exile who live next to us are not horrid, but brave. And the world IS falling apart, unlike what other words may imply. Ranting about the world having no problems isn't going to help; our problem is our lack of problems. Without problems, we are not humans, because humans exist as problem-solvers; but now we are not humans anymore. We do not solve problems.

The color grey - not the color, but the thought of quiet and dull and lack of problems - is nice sometimes; but only in balance. There is too much grey and little balance. The walls and everything else, made of a grey metal that seems dull, though it shines with irregular light. This is what our life is like.

There is color, but it is faded and fake. People talk the same way, faded and fake.

The voices that are bright, clear and true like the soft sun are a rarity. But they are there; and they are not permitted.