My walk home is grey. Clouds obscure the sun in pillars and mountains of sky. I pass many pedestrians and see no faces. The pathway surrounded by trees, on which I first proposed to my partner and felt my heart unite in singular purpose, is barricaded by heavy machinery; something is under construction here.
There are two colours in my head as I enter my apartment. My partner is away, their things across our home leaving me wistful. A note on the fridge grants me pause:
I dream of being cut up into little tiny pieces, cremated and scattered into the ocean. No one is there to gather my remains. I am mourned only by the birds, who would have loved the bread of my intact corpse. I wake up feeling not unpleasant, though my bed has only two hands still.
On my way to work, I pass parliaments of owls nested within someone's car. Two policemen attempt to shoo them out for the stressed citizen. I am seen and eyed, an unnecessary bystander, and so I walk away.
When I at last arrive in the Genera's car park, I feel light. Blood drops to the pavement below me. I tilt my head back and gently hold my nose. Inside, the receptionist hands me a tissue. He welcomes me to familiar territory. I can't hide my surprise. He simply smiles and ushers me upwards, upwards, up into the scraping tower, up into the chambers of doors, up into the elevators and glass, up into my new role as a necessary cell in our strange corporate organism of words.
On the way, we stop by Prospect's office. She greets me with a firm handshake, saying nothing, looking into my eyes and quelling any uncertainty. "You are here," her eyes say. "You are here, and your place has been settled."
(Click.)
There are two colours in my head as I enter my apartment. My partner is away, their things across our home leaving me wistful. A note on the fridge grants me pause:
"J,
I will be out on a dig, coming home late, help yourself to dinner in the oven.
-I"
I dream of being cut up into little tiny pieces, cremated and scattered into the ocean. No one is there to gather my remains. I am mourned only by the birds, who would have loved the bread of my intact corpse. I wake up feeling not unpleasant, though my bed has only two hands still.
On my way to work, I pass parliaments of owls nested within someone's car. Two policemen attempt to shoo them out for the stressed citizen. I am seen and eyed, an unnecessary bystander, and so I walk away.
When I at last arrive in the Genera's car park, I feel light. Blood drops to the pavement below me. I tilt my head back and gently hold my nose. Inside, the receptionist hands me a tissue. He welcomes me to familiar territory. I can't hide my surprise. He simply smiles and ushers me upwards, upwards, up into the scraping tower, up into the chambers of doors, up into the elevators and glass, up into my new role as a necessary cell in our strange corporate organism of words.
On the way, we stop by Prospect's office. She greets me with a firm handshake, saying nothing, looking into my eyes and quelling any uncertainty. "You are here," her eyes say. "You are here, and your place has been settled."
(Click.)