There is deep exhaustion everywhere. The kind that climbs onto your shoulders, places warm sweaty palms on your eyes, and rests its long tentacles along your bones. You can’t shake it off, no matter how much you sleep.

You long for the respite of the cool night air, but it never comes. Perhaps there is a moment of happiness in a new ice cream cafe, a walk with a friend sipping iced lattes at 11pm, the discovery of a new book to take you away from this fetid existence. A moment, maybe. Two of them.

Air conditioning units humming through the night, causing your throat to dry out like sandpaper, causing your cough to hack you awake from restless and clammy dreams.

Then you decide enough is enough, you will venture out, bring the world to your eyes so they may drink, make the most of where you are. But it is a concrete wilderness. House upon house, bridges stretching over gleaming highways. Bloated with traffic. The kind that has sharp, hot, exhaust-fumed edges and dogged determination. Every exit is a game of chicken. Cars coming out of intersections at the speed of bullet trains. Do I brake, do I carry on, do I assert myself, do I give in.. so much at risk though. So much. So ultimately, do I really want to be outdoors fighting for my life against these metal machines driven by people who believe they will live forever?

It’s a gleaming, shining, sterile city, if you choose to look at it that way. Malls and shopping complexes, five star dining and the most luxuriant cosmetics and decadent foods. Women dressed like queens, men smelling like musk and oud. Pristine. Polished. Smooth. Convenience on a plate. Someone will take your groceries to your car for you, happy to carry your children, clean your home, cook your food. You don’t need to lift a finger if you don’t want to. If you don’t have a maid or nanny there is shock in their eyes.

And dust everywhere. Brown sky, brown ground, plants wilt and die, death rises up to meet death.

A bed of luxury at death’s doormat.

Do we walk away from Omelas?