Thank you very much for the opportunity to work here. The job is everything I could ask for and more. Your offer is an act of pure generosity. There is just one thing I must inspect before I can commit myself into your service. May I see your air handling equipment?

What? Ducts that were designed to impede cleaning without mitigating the necessity–colonies of unidentified streptococci so large as to be visible on the vents–a palpable hardness to the settling gases they expel–motors that fling shreds of their own wear and tear into the air they move–electric fields whose effects on the air have been neither theorized nor tested–filters that provide breeding grounds for unseen colonies of bacteria who rejoice at the strong winds for delivering nourishment in abundance and whisking away offspring to their hopeful destinies in the respiratory tracts of people–people upon people upon people, packed into spaces with no access to the purifying light of the sun–a death camp for the willing.

You want me to work here? You want me, who was born from flesh into air and has left it only briefly to dive or be buried in sand at the beach, who drinks it every moment, who slips into soliloquy on tasting a rare whiff from a wet pine grove, who dreams of flight as a fish dreams of swimming, who desires fast travel only for the solid sensation of wind against body, who gapes and yawns for the lack of it, who would kill rather than suffocate, to spend a third part of my life immersed in this?

Fuck you.