Let’s imagine the ceramic businessman going to work. Getting up out of his ceramic bed, sand under the pillow, broken shards of his own feet at the bottom of the bed.
Let’s imagine him brushing his tiny, brittle, sandpaper teeth. Taking a shower and realising a towel is not as effective as he would like.
Let’s imagine, as he walks to work, the cracks in the pavement giant crevasses; puddles like lakes; the litter in the gutter vast swathes of insurmountable rubbish — an impossible challenge for our little hero to overcome.
Let us pause, and wonder at how easily he might avoid the ticket inspectors, and creep silently between the feet of the giants on the underground.
Careful, ceramic businessman, not to be trampled! You are fragile: A tiny, insignificant, unseen, unremembered agent in the world of the organic.
And even if he reaches his desk, will he have the strength to lift the pen or the coffee cup, or summon the will not to crumble?
Poor, poor little ceramic businessman: Go home, go back to bed, back to the sand between your sandy toes.
Sleep, sleep, tiny ceramic businessman. Sleep.