They’re like Flies to fruit, or more like dog shit. They come from the farthest reaches of the mundane wall-less expanse. They smell it like rabid dogs, zombies, neglected starving hyenas to a lone zebra. Like a fat old man who sees the finest ribs after having to stand for several hours straight. No napkins, utensils or tablecloth. No wet wipes or sleeves to wipe on. Everything left on the cheeks and lips without shame or one shred of dignity. Scrounging as if without readily available resources whatsoever. As if rations were meagerly scattered from the elite to the many poor.

Someone brings in food to the office and they flock from rooms away, as if starved to death with nothing to do. As if they’ve never had food in their life.

As if deserving.