The Office

Tragic the monotone hum, every five minutes like clockwork.

Distant souls roam going about their moments in the world below. Detached window view of time passing.

Loose tie and suit jacket off. Corner office. Total and complete success. I’ve succeeded my way right into a box. Removed from the social sphere and begging god to fling an asteroid my way and not warn me.

Five minute mark, the scanner hums and I’m ticking away at the keys. Clicking and scrolling and typing and scanning.

Ambient chit chat somewhere off in the pit of the building keeps the atmosphere just above silent.

Working but nowhere near present. Dreaming at the florescent bulbs more powerful than the sunlight that beams through the window. Trees and birds, likely not much farther than the ones directly outside. Reality is only revisited when looking to see what number the little hand points at.

Making green to let strangers more clever than I hoard it in a private bank to avoid it getting stolen by anyone other than the owner of the bank. I pay for that individual to have the exclusive rights to use my money how they want while I wait for 5pm. Pay for their vacations and their hookers while I sift through spread sheets. Twelve hour work days to assure someone will have zero hour work weeks.

At least my watch is more expensive than the entire common household annual income. Nothing but the freedom to stare at my wrist and realize I’ve only begun the day.