better than biting into the apple and finding half a worm

Fetid stink, sewer miasma rising from clogged vents, a million people shoving, shuffling, pushing and screwing, all trying to get a piece of the pie that's always just around the corner, stinky fingers from having so many digits in so many people, rotting streets, bugs and insects replaced by beetle humans.
Engineering looks and masks, continual chameleon mimicry and trickery, tweaking, prodding, pinching and yanking, making up and dressing down, filling out and stuffing in.
Get out the door so the city can see your latest and only creation (you), get back in to feel safe and lonely.
Bury deep who you are, or bury it somewhere else, balls-deep chronic pile-drive after conversations that lead nowhere about someone else's life that doesn't exist, on the wired messiah, the box, the mecca for all prophets and false saints of consumerism and faith, kneel, pray.
Feel it, loathe it, enjoy it, wash in it, recoil from it, cuddle with it, fuck it, drop it, kick it, pin it up to look at later... and move on. There's simply too much to do.