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SALT — a fiction
Fish once swam in these walls.
Fish once swam in these walls. Their waters are now crystallised, the ebb and flow of an ancient sea solidified and preserved in the salt.
You had better drink while you are down here. The walls draw the moisture from your body, desperate to feel the touch of liquid once again. Keep drinking. Wash the sodium from your system. You are saturated with it here.
We haven’t lost a soul for years. Those living below the salt were once Roman slaves, convicts, all those without worth. Death would come soon for them. Their lives were cheap, but they were many. Those sort of expenditures soon add up for those above, desperate for a little flavour on their plate.
Now, of course, we are unionised. We are few, but be earn a respectable wage. In comparison to those who went before, we are but babysitters for the true workers — the machines who drill night after day into the white sediment, hauling the crumbs up to your table. But you still have to have respect — for those who lived and died for this. For those whose time among the glistening walls was short and thirsty.
When you drink, drink to them. Drink to the rapists and thieves. Drink to those sold into the trade. Drink to the scum of humanity. Our predecessors. We chip away at their coffin as we delve into the white canvas, restoring another facade of purity as we ship off layer upon layer for the supermarket shelves. We love to forget such things. It’s easy when you try. But here, in the heart of the solid sea, when you see the process in action — when you see it happening right in front of you — you can’t help but be aware of the vast space between the walls and the void we leave behind.