His speech about the upcoming election, his speech about the candidacy for regional party secretary as leader of his new splinter party the name of which has something to do with national identity, is being broadcast, but nobody is listening. If it’s not something about freeloaders-slash-parasites, the people’s interest in information has become negligible.

“Hardship,”

Says

Thome’s father

Raising his eyebrows,

“Is in this country self-inflicted. You, the industrious people out there in coworking spaces and so forth, you bear the burden of all those who voluntarily live on the fringes of, practically outside of, society. Wish to.” The people nod.

They nod, the good people, the normal people, who work, at something proper, something that turns up in job statistics. They drive for an hour to go somewhere and do some shit or other that’s available to those incapable of IT work. To old people. To the morons who’d been civil servants, or lawyers or teachers or automobile builders or train drivers, or had worked at the counter for an airline and now were in their mid-forties and too stupid to code. Service work was still possible. Serving the poor bastards who indulge in a service before they throw themselves in the Thames. They definitely work, the decent people, make it through every day, do things they don’t want to, though what they do want they don’t know. Get up, eat, in a full bus, in a shop, shitty faces, fluorescent lights, workplace enhancement. Meaning there’s a green plant and a water cooler, they get a short break in the afternoon and rush around in the sun, blinking. Hey, wow, what’s this, there’re trees, there’s light, you could—yeah, okay. No idea. So back it is, make stuff, go home, full bus, stand. People too tightly packed. All gray in the face. At home, on the outskirts of the city, some street without trees, but hooray, still, a flat with windows, you have to be thankful. Savor life. Savor life either alone in the kitchen with some ready-made food and the water faucet, you know how it is, in the yard there’s a rubbish bin and no cat.

Or