At Work / A Journal of Sorts / 10.14.17

Here is an absence of time.

No one moves, no one speaks, not loud enough anyway.

There are only mutters, twitches, and flashes of light.

The sound ringing in your ears has lost its meaning.

The world is here, something dim, cold, and out of focus.

The sky is nothing but the lid of a box and the floor is padded for your comfort.

Maybe this is hell.

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