Pianola

Yours sincerely has, as the observant reader has already noticed, been going downhill as of late. Last Saturday-soon-to-be-Sunday was spent in Total Exhaustment lying down staring at the roof, for reasons mentioned earlier, and Paintstakingly skipped a heartbeat. Yours sinc. renders status quo with this sketch:

I feel like a pianola: Yes, the old self-playing piano with stripes cut in the paper that makes the song, in my case a very pointless one, paint, try to sell, repeat. This basso continuo is affecting my art more than I want to and is something that I also hear echoing throughout the rest of society. Produce so that you may consume, lose the hours of life so that you stay alive. Live long and... despair.

Let us see:
Chandelier, check.
Piano playing The Merry Anthem of Productivity |:repeat ad infinitum:|
The Woodenheads marching. They uphold Our Values and Standards. Unlike me, they never miss a beat as aforesaid Anthem is echoing xylophonically through their heads. Check.
Below, the used and discarded biomass of humanity. Check.

Or whatever interpretation that you want.