The day drags me forward by the feet. I watch the gray sky, the hopeful buds on the trees. Poor things, it’ll be weeks before we see you green. The office is operation room bright, desaturated, voices too close, arms over cubicles walls what can you do? There’s not enough room. Intentional or otherwise, it’s not a place to ask questions, to stretch and walk and wonder. Everything you do will be to stay awake. You will sicken and die. It will be a slow and dignified death. It will be colourless. Here out of what necessity? The heartbeats that skip, measuring the day in broken increments, the headaches, the headphones, I would invent a conspiracy to escape this place.
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