An intelligent man sits beside me, I think he is intelligent as he seems awkward around other people. I assume he is better than the lot, who keeps on their feed about all the things in a quick fashion. It is my first job, my first time working with other people. I hated it right away, I don't know why, it's there. It's in everybody, it's in a narcissistic person, it's in me and you, the money is something, like really important and all in this room giving up their time and other things to earn a living. Seeing a positive way in the existential way of thinking. The typing sound of the computers continues till noon, non-stop. Such a crappy life, the mind says, and you keep the typing continue to make the company richer and you keep on the log in the back of your own thoughts.

The windows are all shut, the AC is on, and I see a person jumping out of the 26th floor, what a scene, a masterpiece in the midst of dullness. All these grown up, the world and the people in it is something unique, 7 billion minds, 7 billion wants, infinite failures, the walk till the feet gets cracked by mud and you become too tired, what an existence, what a laughable protest, alone, maybe with someone who is tired of himself. Tired with the mind that is as dull as it can get. Idiot people, maybe the delusional human is me. My own fantasies lie aligned with reality, and other people fill the gap in my imagination of what life is about. A different life, different grief, the quantity is different, the quality of it's something that can scare you if you be true with the words that come out of the mouth and all which is you is totally different than everyone.

The place that I go to work, it's been only a week and it has become a familiar view really quickly, the chair that I sit on, the computer, the human that sits beside me and the reflection of the sun at exactly 2 PM in the afternoon. The rush of the deadline, the fat, ugly, good-looking people are all in it, the rush of the hand of the clock, rushing through dimensions of layers, and the day ends. I walk down the narrow alley, wet road, and tire marks of the diseased. I walk, till my feet get cracked by mud and everything in it. The bus stop, more people, you miss something, some moment maybe, some memory that has some value and you keep on the wait. The bus stop and other people. Some have good eyebrows, some have a smile on their face, some like me, thinking, God knows what, and the key sounds a familiar tune of the creek. You are home.

The place that I go to work.

In it there is you;

Maybe not;


I’ll come back tomorrow.

The same corner seat;

Fill the blanks for the rest of the lines.