Those who survived the petty squabbles of heroic loves that barely die, the suicidal thoughts of tragically perishing break-up attempts, and didn't stay or waste away on purpose in the mess of saw-toothed railway tracks just because he could get a lesson from the afterlife sooner than some, and this current pitifully consolidated business profiteering doesn't end with him either, - sums up the humble industry of little people like this.
Don't expect a spectacular Sisyphus fall, a chess piece's destruction, they won't give him a dignified heroic end! The small existence, false compromise is guaranteed by the business policy of the non-existent company or bankrupt company, and the ingrained habit of still living.
Surely, he avoided martyrdom of his own free will, and released the mantle of the abundant meat pots long ago; sympathy resurrected in friendly, loyal handshakes, insidious, diabolical intrigues lurking in tiny fingers can hasten its voluntary, pitiful downfall on the wave crests that sharks absorb according to the law of business life.
You won't win your career prize or a laurel wreath, and if you try to be meek, you might deserve a kick in the ass!
But at home, among your favorite books, you can easily find a cosmic, general illness: an aching, vulnerable soul, a complex of symptoms of severe rhythm disturbance, which must be hidden, so that with a mummy-like apocryphal dignity, which has long since denied the fever of our simple, magical dreams: your broken, sickly face hides the invisible the cowardice and shame of a childish instinct.