Promenade

Four minutes past five-thirty, and the same shaft of sun would hit the third column of the wall tucked at the far end of the office, forming an L-shape shadow with ordinary precision. A knight's move, an imprint, a sameness that I've been seeing for the last three years.

I'm diminished; this is a prison. This. Which is what, exactly? The clouds turn their silly cartwheels outside a window that would soon be closed to me. I have too much work―my final eulogies, my last will and testament―but I'm winded. Combat fatigue, perhaps. But save your fucking medal. It's my own crack-up debilitation. I'm spent. My leaving is the tally of my psychological expenditure: sorry hon, we're closed for the day.

My veins are heavy, filled with plebian plasma, ferrying lengthy lassitude, to a heart that's hibernating in the anchor watch of death. Cleave me open, and I'll bleed antipathy all over you. My arms need puppeting.

The shadow has faded off the wall. Good night.