What should be music is not, as if Wendy Carlos had given up and played only three notes over and over again. That music is outide the room, along with a chain of voices and slow rolling wheels. This room is unlit., the green glare of a screen saver and the flood of flourecent is waiting to light the page.
This is not TV show pristine, with bright whites and blues, where everything is new with symmetry. but rather it has a dischordant wall of warnings and omens. Black scuff trails from the floor up to the lower half of the wall where you cannot walk, from where furniture was moved. I dare not imagine the floor with the lights on, when everything can come to focus, where this _______ equipment was put down without thought.
These are not the colors of clean, the hues of sterility. This feels more akin to an office of automatons, middling with a desire to become a cube farm, but can’t quite attain those lofty goals.