Thurs.

Morning.
Another work week about to end.
Coffee mit cream and Splenda in a small styrofoam cup.
Disembodied voices vacillate vibratto over and between the cubicle walls.
Would that I could stand up and get everyone to follow me down the stairs out the door and up the street to Backyard Burgers for some waffle fries and lemonade and jolly times.
A gentlemen from my company died yesterday of a massive brain tumor.
He found out six months ago that he had six months to live.
He must’ve loved his work.
He was here everyday.
Not me.
Not me.

Thurs.