This is not the story of an angry man. Neither of an angry generation. He is not a sick man either, and nothing hurts, not his stomach, nor his liver. It has all been taken care of. He is not invisible, far from it, for he is made to feel significant enough by the job he does. The card he swipes to get into his office every morning, proves irrefutably that he does exist. And if that were not enough, his fingerprints are all over his desk, and on his pen and paper. He is not a stranger, nor is his mother dead, and no matter how you look at it, turn the matter carefully like a precious stone in your hand, he is not an outsider. All the corners are hewn off, leaving behind a perfectly polished peg to fit the hole. All the voices of revolution have drowned in his blood.
Which is why there is no story.
Image from Frank Baker