I hate the early morning, and the ugly light of sunrise; it’s the harbinger of meticulously knotted ties, and thick black, bitter drinks. I hate the way I speak, as if everything is important; everything is funny, everything is fine. It’s not fine. It never has been. But I pretend it is, and wear a smile made of the same cheap plastic as my contemptible surroundings. Be nice. Be friendly. Be professional. Pretend to be what you hope to be, and hope that it comes true, not because you want it to, but because you need it to. Ignore the lack of satisfaction, or that empty feeling that courses through your veins as you sit at your desk and watch the little hand erase what remains of your youth. You need to wear that suit, and cash those checks. How else can you prove your worth? How else could you ever hope to have her look at you with the admiration that she once did? With any luck the straight and narrow haircut, and freshly pressed suit will hide the deadman underneath.
Yours in Contemplation,