Life in the 22nd century will be harsh, unless we do something about it.

    I woke up today in my shanty. I got up, put on my clothes that I've worn for over a month straight. I can get them washed next free day. In another month. I walk down the rough concrete floors, weaving through the other workers as I head to the factory. Most of the workers are missing fingers, even feet from industrial accidents. I'm lucky not to be like them. I've been working since I turned eight. I'm twenty-five, but I have better health than most people who are eighteen. I still have all my teeth. I stopped by the cafeteria to get a bowl of sludge on my way to the factory. It's tasteless, but they say it will keep you alive. I hope so. The Plague's been going around, and most of my family and friends have died. The factory smells awful today. I'm assuming somebody got hit by a machine again. Yep, there's somebody in my seat, and he's not moving. I'll just shove him off a little. That's a bad hit. He probably died instantly. I wonder if it was the foreman or one of the machines that killed him. Oh, well, have to do my job, or I'll be like him. I have to make a surplus today or I don't get fed tomorrow. I don't know how so much work translates to such a tiny bowl of sludge, but it's all I can do.

    Wanna know something else? It happens today, and it happened in the past also. I can guarantee that at least 90% of the elements in this story have happened. End this trend.