A disease. An incurable, fast acting and airborne disease plagues the city streets.

The disease burns away at a person's face whilst also invading their body via their pores. From there, it navigates the inside of their body as it makes its way to the person's head where it will begin to melt their brain; and from what I hear, the process, as expected, is extremely painful and is 100% guaranteed to lead to that person's gruesome death. 

Shiliter's disease they call it. It's said to have seemingly appeared entirely out of the blue around three years ago; although, it is speculated to have been around for about 15 years.

Ever since its appearance has had far deadlier widespread effects three years ago, I've been held up in my apartment, surviving purely off tap water as well as pot pies given to me and other survivors by an unknown organization.

In return, we become workers who are required to fill out daily paperwork to receive the pies. The paperwork on average takes roughly four to eight hours to complete and consists of recording thoughts based off hundreds of Rorschach-esque photos. For what reason is unclear to me and while part of me believes the tests to be quite worthless, the other part of me believes there to be a purpose for administering the tests, albeit, that part of me is quite the minority and has been consistently declining in believability about a year now.

As of recently, I've felt less and less motivated to even complete the tests.

After all, why would I?

I hate pot pies. I always have.

I hate the deceiving looks of the pie with its beautiful, formal, and delectable looking exterior and its sloppy, nasty, and outright messy interior. Simply put, it tastes like complete and utter trash. Filth to fill my mouth just so I could survive for another day on this floating sphere in space.

A food that deceiving, that disgusting should not be allowed to exist.

It has no right to.

Honestly sometimes I wonder if death is a better outcome than having to consume that trash.

After all, what's the point of even surviving if all I get to eat is pot pie?

Will my life forever exist at the mercy of pot pie?

Perhaps I will stay in apartment for one more week, perhaps less depending on my mood.

Then I'll walk outside.

To be honest, one dead worker shouldn't matter in the grand scheme of things. In fact, I'd bet the lives of everyone on the planet that it won't matter. I am a lone worker, likely one in a billion people. A boy with a rather minuscule purpose matched to one billion other people. The world gains nothing if I am alive nor does it lose anything if I am no longer living.

I exist and so does the world.

I cease to exist and for me, so too does the world.

I cease to exist, the world does not.

Ugh, all this thinking is making my head hurt.

I'm going to sleep.