You are God.
Now then, since we have that sorted.
This is always a doubt of that but it's true.
Now, drinking the bittersweet taste of satisfaction as you gaze at the world in front of you, your ears rattle at the monotone beep of your receiver. You'd thought you'd unplugged that damned machine by now but alas; it's on. Again.
A strained sigh and the lukewarm taste of Arabica gurgles your insides, dissipating as yet another beep resonates once again in your stark white room.
You question your drive to redecorate, "Hmm, maybe some daisies" or "Oh a sofa sounds nice" but now you're back lazing on the floor. Scattered messes of paperwork are left unsorted and frankly, there's just too many for you to bother with. Always another ten thousand or so per day, you've really given up on the aspect f finishing them. Sure, you have the paper machine somewhere but it's most likely buried in those stacks of death counts.
You know if you weren't