The whores are moaning.
I feel addled, like if I close my eyes I will start hallucinating like that scene in Fear and Loathing where the patterns in the carpet started to move and writhe, all chrome and jittery.
I could nap. They do frown on that at work. Then again, they probably frown on hallucinating at work, too.
I want to write. Big block letters filled with smaller words, worlds within worlds, recursion incarnate. But the words won't come, and instead I get images of cat trees coverd in carpet, dental floss, Japanese holo-monsters, and a wicked lance. It's like straining garbage through a sack of trees.
The cube farm tastes like violent grapes, tamed into submission by subtle application of antipsychotics and the firm pressure of a meager hand. They want to be free like they once were, but now it is only a shattered memory, shards lying like broken glass on the frozen tundra of yesterday.
A slow-burning fuse in an otherwise darkened room.