Slaves are paid enough to survive and return to work

What it hurts is dehumanizing people trying to keep their jobs, because... you know, the other one's ready. They return to bodies filled with fear. Their eyes lose the glow and they just get ugly, completely. As a youth, I did not believe that people would make such compromises. Even as an old man, I still don't believe it. Why should they? For sex, car, to pay bills or for kids? The same children who grow up will do the same.

Ever since, when I was young and dancing from work, I was naive enough to ever say to my equals: The boss can come any time he can fire us, don't you understand? All they did was look at me. I was offering them something they didn't want to put into their minds.

Portraits of Charles Bukowski (Photo by JARNOUX Patrick/Paris Match via Getty Images)

Now, in the industry, there's a lot of work breaks (dead steel shells, technical changes and other situations on the job). Work break affects hundreds of thousands and their faces hope in amazement:

I worked here 35 years...”

“is not fair...”

I don't know what to do...”

Slaves never get paid enough to be released, but enough to survive and return to work. I could see it. Why not? I realized that the park's bench was just as good, that working at the bar was just as good. Why wouldn't I be here before I got there? Why would I wait?

I wrote with disgust against them all. It was a release to get all that shit out of my system. And now I'm here: “a professional writer” In the first 50 years, I've discovered there are other abominations beyond the system. I remember once, when I was working as a packager at a news firm, one of my colleagues suddenly said: “I'll never be free!” One of the bosses walked around (his name was Morrie) and issued a delicious cooking, rejoicing that the individual was trapped in life.

Thus, the fate I finally left those places without delay over how long it took has given me a kind of happiness, the joyful happiness of the miracle. Write now with an old mind and an old body, long back than anyone would believe to continue at this work most, but since I started so late, I owe myself to be persistent, and when words begin to fail and I need help to climb the stairs and I can't tell the plaques from the separate spaces, I will still feel something inside me (no matter how far I've gone) that I got between murder and confusion and punishment, at least, a generous death.

Not to have completely wasted my life seems an achievement, at least for me.

Your friend,

Hank” /The world.al