My co-workers and I have been ordered to make more bricks with no straw. Fallen fellow slaves must be stepped over. No one has time to bury them. The overseers in the capital have informed us it doesn't matter if the bricks are any good or not. We are not allowed to test the bricks or even care if they are strong and straight. If they crumble once they are out of our hands, it doesn't matter. We use the crumbs to make more bricks that won't be strong.
The only thing that matters is how many bricks we turn out per day. Actually, that's not even true. The only thing that matters is how many bricks the ledger says we make per day.
You see, it isn't allowed to care about the bricks. No one cares about the bricks. No one uses bricks anymore. There is concrete and steel and the overseers would rather tax us to create new concrete and import steel.
There are so many bricks and bits of bricks and broken, crumbled bricks on the streets. They hurt the feet of the overseers. They mess up the landscape. Sweep them away! Forget them!
Of course, the overseers must appear to care a little bit about bricks. So we are employed to make them and fix them. But it's not that important to appear to care about bricks. Bricks don't vote. And since bricks aren't important, those who work with bricks aren't important either.
We should be damn happy that we aren't bricks ourselves. We should be damn happy that our overseers don't use the whip more often than they do. Thank you, thank you Masta!
Please don't let me fall today. I don't want to be stepped over by those with whom I work. Please don't let me fall.