Black spots of gray, here there. Where? Look up. The sky, it's not a light blue, not a wonderful bright cyan, never has been. It's dark, a dark musty blue, black splotches of gray litter it.

Brown, yellow, a dead brown yellow. Down, the ground, the grass does not grow.

The buildings too, have no bright colors, all gray, all brown, maybe dark red from the bricks use to build it. So where's the color? 

It's quite, so quite. Maybe you can here the light tapping of some one walking up, or down the stairs. Peaceful. Maybe the slight thumping of slightly acidic rain will fill the silence.  Or perhaps the loud thumping of people working, the hum of a car.

Strange, a place full of people, but not a sound to be heard. No color to be seen, and a sky always dark. No it's not strange, it's always been this way. 

Something cannot be strange if it has never be different. It is not quite, so loud, all the sounds around, just no speaking. There is no need for words here. Everything is already told to everyone. No need for words to ask questions, everything has an answer. No need for words to say something, when nothing needs to be said. No need for words to complain, when all is well and perfect. Music has no need for words, when nothing needs to be said.

Hush, can't you hear it? The buzzing sound of work? The sound of people traveling, to and from and from and to. The sound of wasting away in a place of pure perfection. No one needs to speak, no one understands words. Stories are meaningless if they do not provide the simple information of society. Meaningless if it makes others want to think.

Like drones, like robots. No minds of their own, no mind to call their own. Just work, live, eat, sleep, repeat. No one can be unhappy, if its simple for them. Everyone has their place. Because of this everyone is happy.

Shh, quite now. Your words are not needed, nor can they be heard. They are washed away like an unwanted stain by the tides of sound of happy people, working.