Sometimes when I'm tired and sad and working at the slaughter house, I look at the grinder that we dump baby chicks into and I feel so sad, and in my exhausted delirium I convinced myself that they aren't dying, but they are being transported to somewhere far away, a farm upstate, a nother planet where all the soft fuzzy animals go, where your goldfish and pet dog and cat go, and sometimes I think I would like to go there too, and I think of reaching my hand into the grinder, as if the razor wheels aren't sharpened steel but firm plastic bristles, and on the other side I could feel the warmth of the sunshine, and the fuzzy piles of newborn chicks as a gentle dog licks my fingers to greet me, and then I remember, I remember in this world there are no such farms, in this world, if one craves the taste of flesh, another must give their life for it, and the farms are all owned by corporations that keep employees in cubicles like caged hens, and dogs are born from mills that turn life's greatest natural joys into a means of exploitation, just like the countless brothels and stripper joints that dot the earth, who themselves churn out new generations of purchasable property, and I wonder, how everyone else does it, how those who turn the gears of industry can bear the knowledge of the terror they cause, and I think that maybe they are the kind that believe in the farm upstate, the paradise on the other side of the meat grinder, but I draw my hand back, because I know that all that's on the other side is more pain
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