digipeter

It was night. It’s funny, she thought, how you notice, without actually seeing the sky. Or, for that matter, seeing anything beyond these blasted walls. No outside influences here, just the aweful noise the machines make; gushing and sloshing away. It seemed strange in a way that somehow the essense of night-ness seems to crawl into this tiny secluded space, while the atmosphere was so filled with the sound, smell and overal looming presence of the machinery. You’d think there wouldn’t be room for anything as mundane as day or night.

It occured to her that the night is the time for sleeping. Oh, how she wished that she would be allowed to sleep, but the machines called. They demanded water, oil, repairs and fuel. The machines never slept, so they wouldn’t let her, not while there was no replacement. But the black-haired girl had had an accident and couldn’t work anymore. Maybe another one would come soon. She hoped so, her hands were starting to shake and she was almost out of water.

Blast, the red light came on. Numer 567 was too hot again. No more time for hoping, off to work! She quickly disappeared between two large drainage-pipes and began her journey down the forest of pipes, beams and steam.