(no subject)
insanity - insanity is any mental disorder that is so severe it prevents one from having the legal capacity to commit a crime or injury and thus excuses that person from criminal or civil liability.
It is three o' clock. I am not even supposed to be here. Here in this old elevator. It is three o' clock, and my co-workers aren't wondering where I am. If it wasn't for the sound of my faint breathing, they would have filled up that cubicle long ago. If it wasn't for the work I did, day in and day out, extension 342 would lead to a completely different voice. The lights would cast a completely different shadow along the inside of that cubicle. The photos, and the memos, and the scribbled notes, would belong to someone else, they would be some other dickhead's stuff to remember. If I didn't call in for work, they wouldn't have noticed. I would have recieved a full days pay, maybe even overtime. So why the fuck did I call in? This always happens to me. I always end up between the second and the third floor. Here in this old elevator. It is three o'five now. My coworkers still aren't wondering where I am. The work day is almost over. Someone will come and see me here. Here in this old elevator. Someone can call out. Call the landlord, tell him that this piece of shit brokedown again. I would but my phone is two floors up. Well technically one and a half floors up. But that still doesn't mean that my phone bill is paid. I sent in the check, but who knows whether it gets there or not. The last time I see that check is before I send it out. After that it could get lost in a world of stamps, and manilla, and glue, in a world of union workers, paper cuts, and navy blue shirts. It is now three ten. I am still here. Here in this old elevator. Someone is coming up, concrete walls echo the scuff of tennis shoes being dragged. They are on the second floor. Maybe they can see me in here. Here in this old, broken down, piece of shit elevator.
It is three o' clock. I am not even supposed to be here. Here in this old elevator. It is three o' clock, and my co-workers aren't wondering where I am. If it wasn't for the sound of my faint breathing, they would have filled up that cubicle long ago. If it wasn't for the work I did, day in and day out, extension 342 would lead to a completely different voice. The lights would cast a completely different shadow along the inside of that cubicle. The photos, and the memos, and the scribbled notes, would belong to someone else, they would be some other dickhead's stuff to remember. If I didn't call in for work, they wouldn't have noticed. I would have recieved a full days pay, maybe even overtime. So why the fuck did I call in? This always happens to me. I always end up between the second and the third floor. Here in this old elevator. It is three o'five now. My coworkers still aren't wondering where I am. The work day is almost over. Someone will come and see me here. Here in this old elevator. Someone can call out. Call the landlord, tell him that this piece of shit brokedown again. I would but my phone is two floors up. Well technically one and a half floors up. But that still doesn't mean that my phone bill is paid. I sent in the check, but who knows whether it gets there or not. The last time I see that check is before I send it out. After that it could get lost in a world of stamps, and manilla, and glue, in a world of union workers, paper cuts, and navy blue shirts. It is now three ten. I am still here. Here in this old elevator. Someone is coming up, concrete walls echo the scuff of tennis shoes being dragged. They are on the second floor. Maybe they can see me in here. Here in this old, broken down, piece of shit elevator.