The grey concrete walls of my tower block perfectly match the grey of the clouds above. They seem to meet with and blur into each other some point before the 40th storey that marks the building’s top. Everything seems to be grey, and I think that’s the way the Authority intends it. Nothing colourful, nothing bright, nothing that might spark imagination or fuel happiness or hope. Just grey. The buildings are grey, the sky is grey and, even more so, the people are grey. Drained of what little vibrancy they once had to better suit their roles, all Authority appointed. They don’t need to be able to think, just work. In the mines, on building sites, in offices; they might all wear a different (grey) uniform, but they amount to the same thing, slaves. And I’m one of them. We are all slaves to mundanity, to the greyness.