Work Station

At lunch.
A co-worker sat down with a styrofoam box. The whiff of hot chips coming from inside, infiltrated my senses. I closed my eyes and thought of heart disease and illness, it didn’t endure. When I opened my eyes again, a chip was staring up at me. It had to be eaten, it had to be stopped, if not, it would surely tempt another. So it was dipped in sauce and vanished into my mouth at once.

At my desk.
I can hear the type of music that rings in the ears of the tasteless. Some day in the future, researchers will discover that a whole generation of minds have been wiped out by this terrible treble

At 2:30
Bad coffee steams and clouds even the clearest of thoughts. I embrace its power and leave behind a yawn. I’ve succomed to yet another horrible cup of caffeine, the enemy even at the best of times. What is blend 43? And would blend 44, be better or worse?

Under my desk.
My shoe-laces are growing long in the tooth, loose and dangling. They appear to be resisting my urge for them to be tied together. They want to be free, to explore the floor and contribute to a trip. They have the power to tie my feet together, but withhold, knowing full well, that I already have my fair share of problems which tie me up.