DATE: 14th of December 2321
SUBJECT: Bop Skitfeld
ID: MATAFACTORUM_J2H_DIV412

This whole place keeps gnawing at my brain. The wires. The circuitry. 
The unorganized cables. Castles made of discarded junk, soldered 
together by slaves and fools working for the opportunity to get 
their hands on antique tech. All under the watchful lense of glistening
bi-pedal semi-sentients. The loud screech of jury-rigged cooling fans,
the clacking of the drum drives that were never allowed to die.

Every morning I am reminded of my sub-serviency, as a metallic arm
squeezes 1/3rd of the daily protein ration inside a paper cup, before
I am walked to the stripery. The monochrome walls of my discomfort.
"The wheel of the market must turn!"

They shot another one yesterday. Just a boy. I heard him talk about
the outside. We've since learned to discard hope, but the machine
takes no chances. An illusion of hope is just as dangerous as the
real deal. It was a good reminder that there is always a way out.

I hate this place.

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