I want to tell them that it's a shame I care whether they reply or not. Herman collects on the couch, flickering business news on loop after endless loop in the hope that some of that money might osmose into his skull. Sitting in the corner I sew myself up with slippery black thread and try to ignore him. It's hard; monologues keep spurting out of his face. Eventually his privileged little head droops back and starts snorting. I stitch to the percussion of his nostrils, and briefly contemplate attaching him to the sofa, before I realise what a horrendous mistake that would be. I sew his eyelids together instead.
They couch at their desks, enveloped in mustiness, formica and strip lighting. Their pallid faces glow in the pallid blue light thrown from their pallid computer screens. Their bellies churn and mash a slurry of factory food. Expressionless, they stare with droopy eyelids at nothing at all. Occasionally they rouse themselves from stupor to waddle to another room to accidentally annoy someone. They are twee in their atrophy. They are saving the world. One coffee at a time.