Four stories

Numbers, averages, formulas… Every day, from seven (a.m.) to three (p.m.), five days a week. At five to three he looks at his watch. He hurries to the Bus No. 10, at 10 past three. During the ride he fills a lottery ticket. He counts coins for bread. One and forty. He presses number 6 in the elevator. He turns the stove heater to two. He switches the TV channels: Nothing on one, nothing on two… nothing on eighteen. He turns on the radio: 93.6 (FM). The Four seasons. He turns off the radio and counts the tooth brush hits. He turns off the light and lies into bed. His mind does not switch off. Childishly naive, he tries to count the sheep. Numbers, averages, formulas… He grunts, fidgets, gets up and lies down again. Under his eyelids just numbers, averages and formulas, on a dark background. He is a part of those numbers, averages. He is aware of that, but there is no escape route. He is one of those who voted at the elections; he is employed, he is one of regular TV subscription payers; he is a number. He is his own job, and he exhausts himself. He hates what he has turned into, but sees no way to change it. He is not a human being, he is a machine in service to others. He is no human, he is a statistician.