It’s hard to determine a picture from a single puzzle piece.
Sartre writes that hell is other people. Obviously, he had never been here.
I’ve been living the same day for days now. Maybe weeks. I don’t know.
Something big’s going to happen today. Wait.
Something big’s going to happen today. I just know it. It’s been foreseen.
I can’t drink my coffee. My hands are too small, and the cup is too big.
I have doomed us all. It cannot be undone. Again.
I have a routine every morning. Had.
There are men in the men’s room.
Someone’s sending me messages after hours, I think.
I burned Bill today.
How much time passes at the bottom of a lunch box? Minutes? Hours? None at all?
A peek at the machine.
My lunch is gone. I didn’t eat it.
The leaf I pinned to my cubicle wall is growing.
It is great. It is good. (I have to stop it.)