Every day, in the sky above the suburban workers' district, in the air full of soot and oily smell, when the factory sirens vibrate and roar, those people who haven't fully recovered their tired muscles and bones in their sleep have gloomy faces Yes, like frightened cockroaches, from the humble gray houses to the street.In the cold twilight, they walked along the unpaved road towards the tall stone houses like birdcages in the factory.There, the factory was waiting for them with an air of impassive self-confidence, opening dozens of greasy square eyes to light the dirt road.The muddy road was buzzing under their feet, and hoarse sleepy shouts were issued from time to time, and the rough scolding viciously tore apart the early morning sky. However, for them, it was another kind of sound that hit their faces—— —the lumbering roar of machinery and the roar of steam.The tall black chimney towers over the suburbs like a thick stick, and its trembling appearance is gloomy and solemn.

In the evening, the sun went down, and its blood-red afterglow shone wearily and sadly on the glass of the windows of every house.From its stony breast the factory hurls these men like useless slag. They, faces black with soot, mouths with hungry teeth, walked down the street.At this moment, their voices were a little excited, even joyful-the day's hard labor was done, and dinner and rest were waiting for them at home. The factory devours the hours of the day, and the machine wrings the strength it needs from the bones and sinews of men.The fashion of the whole day has disappeared from life without a trace, but they are one step closer to their own graves.But they were content to look at the enjoyment before them--the respite and joy in the smoky tavern.

On holidays, they sleep until around ten o'clock in the morning, and then those honest and prudent people with small families put on neater clothes to go to mass.Along the way, they cursed the youth for their indifference to religion.When I came back from church, after eating the pie, I lay down to sleep again--and slept until evening. Adult labor has caused them to lose their normal appetite. In order to be able to eat, they drink desperately and let the burning heat strengthened by Volt stimulate their appetite. After dark, they wandered the streets lazily.Some wear overshoes, even if it is not raining, put on overshoes.There are those who take umbrellas, even if the sun is out in the sky, take the umbrellas.

When they meet each other, they always talk about the factory, talk about the machine, scold the foreman-everything they think and talk about is related to work.In these dreary days of sameness, clumsy and powerless thoughts sometimes have lonely flashes.When I got home, I quarreled with my wife, often punching and kicking. The young ones went to the tavern, or held parties in different houses in turn. They played the accordion, sang lascivious ditties, said obscene words, danced and drank.Tired people tend to get drunk easily. After getting drunk, their stomachs are full of nameless anger, and they immediately boil up, looking for opportunities to explode.Once they had this opportunity to vent their anger, they would not let it go, even if it was for a small matter, they would fight fiercely like ferocious beasts.Often the head is broken, sometimes maimed, or even killed.

In their daily intercourse, the most common thing is the smoldering resentment, which is as deep-rooted as the fatigue of the muscles and bones that cannot be recovered.These people have inherited this disease of the soul from their fathers from birth, and it has followed them like a shadow to the grave from childhood to adulthood.It has led them to many abominable and senseless cruelties throughout life. Whenever it was the day of rest, the young people would not go home until late at night. Some of them had torn clothes, covered with mud and dust, with scars on their faces, gloating and showing off their love to their companions. some were filled with humiliation and resentment; some wept with grievances;

Sometimes, some boys are dragged home by their parents.They followed the roadside fence, or in some tavern, they found the son who was drunk and muddled.Immediately yelled, raised his fist and beat the weak son who had been softened by vodka, and then took the son back. Anyway, the murderers will go to bed and sleep, because the next morning, when They had to be woken to go to work when the siren came roaring through the air like a dark flood. Although they beat and scolded their sons viciously, in the eyes of the elderly, the drinking and beating of the boys is completely reasonable-because these fathers also drunk and fought in the same way when they were young, and it was the same. beaten by his parents.Life is always the same—it flows smoothly like a muddy river, year after year and day after day.Their whole life is bound by the deep and unbreakable habits of that year, and most of what they do and think every day is to repeat the same old routine.Therefore, none of them wanted to change the life in front of them.

Sometimes, some foreigners come to the workers' area on the outskirts of the city. At first, they were noticed only because they were strangers, and then, hearing them talk about where they used to work, aroused a little superficial interest.After a while the novelty wears off of them, and they become accustomed to them, and they no longer attract attention.After listening to these people, they know that the life of workers is the same everywhere.Since that is the case—what else is there to say? Sometimes, however, a stranger would tell some news about the workers' district that people had never heard of, and everyone would not argue with him, but just listened with suspicion.The words they spoke aroused blind anger in some, vague agitation in others, and uneasiness in thirds by a faint expectation of vague things. .They simply drank more vodka than usual in order to drive away the unnecessary restlessness and restlessness that was hindering them.

When seeing strange things in those strangers, people in the working area never forget it.They have an instinctive vigilance against those who are different from themselves.They are afraid that such a person will throw something into their lives that will disrupt their painful but peaceful routine.Boring as it may be, people are used to enduring the oppression of the constant force that life throws at them, and they don't expect any better changes, they think that all changes can only be more oppressive. People in the workers' quarters silently turned away from those who told novel things.

If these people can't integrate with the monotonous crowd in the working district, then they have to wander elsewhere, or stay alone in the factory... Live like this for fifty years—people die naturally.