cemetery of the forgotten

A spinning clock chimes to wake citizens for a labor shift. Sleepy night air clings to the sky as humans slink out of bed. They rub the dreams from their eyes with fists and form a revolution against their heavy limbs sinking into the ground. The cemetery is lit with fire bugs and swarming with biotronics. They watch the sidewalks, always a slow pitch hum following them, looking left to right with one large eye. There is a newly dug grave today, recently filled. A security box with one worker present is the only living presence. He is asleep. A biotronic will soon find him; do not worry. The new grave has overturned dirt layered upon layer over a bakelite coffin. Above her slumbering head is written: Unknown, A Producer of Pamphlets at Factory #13.