Every morning is the same.
An invisible organ pumping all the sad people out of wide, white beds and into sardine skyscrapers: a vascular march toward payday. Crosswalks will funnel them. Cubicles will bundle them. Asphalt arteries will carry them home. A red sun will exit the broad sky in a blaze of glory. They will miss it.
Good work is a gift you give yourself--after you cast off, dig deep, peer in. Not under florescent tubes of gray-light, but under daylight the color of a grin.