The masses line up at the Automated Teller Machine, beeping and blipping through the screens to get at their crisp green bills, excited or depressed when they get one or more of the new twenty dollar bills.

Intent on their next mission, they head for the door, two revolving doors flanking one of glass and brass, their portal to the outside.

With amusement I look on. The revolving door on the left, closest to the three machines that continuously spit money out at their end users, is closed on the outside. The door still revolves, but they cannot exit, forced to go in a circle with a touch of chagrin, and try the next door. If it was not for the "This Exit Closed" sign on each of the four panes, I may be tempted not to snicker.

Around and round they go, following one another in the daily cattle-drive that has become the daily regime of the corporate lemming. Even as they exit, they refuse to acknowledge their mishap by not warning the person next in line headed into the same cyndrical space they just vacated.

So goes the day of those who refuse to lift their heads, to look around, to take in their surroundings daily as if each step was new, regardless how many times they have travelled the path before.

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