Comfort is frictionless.
There's a gurgle in the corner, small bubbles of air decompressing upwards. Then, the hum, almost comforting and invisible, a bass thrum vibrating behind high walls and under chair legs. The veins in the faux leather are stretched, flattened, submissioned. The gaussian noise of the plastic arms is just enough to grip the DNA sheddings of a thousand wizened arms. Labwork.
This fabricated comfort, this blanket of civility, this smother of passivity. Textureless, this vacuum of friction tiptoes around the horror on the other side of the wall. Lives winnowed, futures narrowed, histories blurred. The air and ourselves are newly conditioned, re-regulated, streamlined into submission. It's all good because it's all that's left. Comfort is frictionless, this slippery slope.