Colours?''He breathes in autumn-chilled pre-dawn air, cricking
his left shoulder which he''d somehow stretched funnily
in his sleep the night
earlier. The time is twenty past six, and the only light comes from the
sterile white of fluorescent bulbs overhead. Nearby, the smell of burnt and
melted metal from the welding bays afflicts him, accompanied by hot, hissing
sounds, comparable to an excess of steam forced through any form of venting. And
always, the low bass drone of music he can never quite make out, which gives him
no amount of
comfort in the least. He looks to the dead slabs of
concrete underneath his boots, and wonders at the
life which used to flourish
there: memories of European cultivation, and before that, endless tracts of
forest Maori warriors would hunt and play in. This land once had true
vitality, he thinks; the incessant cogs of industry now deliver a different form
of energy here. Most colour has been lost, given up to a dystopian grey.
As if in agreement with his thoughts, the now-awakened sun hides behind
thick, drizzling clouds, which again, gives no comfort on this day.