These people are moving, always moving. Bustling into the office with tall, mundane stacks of paperwork, carrying uniformly brown suitcases with secure locks to protect the trivial information inside that they think is important. Always moving, always flowing, in and out, through the hallways and passages of the office, into rooms of tall grey filing cabinets, through myriad doors, never stopping, never ceasing. They are hurried, but their blank eyes stay fixed on the same point throughout their journey. They rush with an ease that suggests that they follow the same routine day after day, week after week. They can map out the entire path that their feet will walk today in their heads before even setting foot into the building.

They do not have time to stop, their brief lulls of quiet and peace spent on mindless machines, calculating tedious sums, running through the same tired sequence in their little cubicles. They type slowly, fingers tapping keys almost reluctantly, not wanting to touch the rectangular block of white plastic for a second longer. Of what value is this? Entering useless information into a database, only to be kept hidden, filed away meaninglessly? There is no higher purpose. There is no meaning.

And then they rise from those restraining walls, back into the rooms, the passages, the hallways, one by one. And as they rise, they are no longer important individuals. No. As they rise, they devolve to single cells, to separate parts of the single machine, that one entity made up of all its single components. Perfectly oiled, perfectly smooth, gears clicking and turning with uniformly blasé noises. Gargantuan, monstrous, it devours more and more, becoming larger and larger. It is an amorphous mass, oozing through the passages, sucking up those who dare to tempt it. It flows like raw honey, with boring viscosity, composed of the minds of the obedient automatons that it commands. All part of the same crowd. They are all equal, all equally important, all equally expendable.

And then the distinction disappears and the 'they' becomes the 'it'. The individuals are all one. The ocean of faces becomes the one blank, uncaring mass. The people who carried the files, who moved from one room to the other with infite uncaring, their expressions meld together, and they are all one and the same. And only when it reaches the front door does the sea split apart into people. It is only then that they walk to their vehicles, driving away from the drab place they must return to tomorrow.