setting #2

It is always foggy and grey walking back here. Passing the man on the bench, who goes unwashed for months. The unwelcome cigarette stares, entering the automatic sliding doors. I’m aware of the blinking exhaustion of my eyes, how they open and close desiring sleep. The metal door knob is as cold as winter – and always shocks my fingertips as I open the door. There is a disorganized pile of popular magazine on the four legged slab of wood. Once the time arrives, we follow a woman who has roses in her cheeks, into the open space where offices live. Entering the room, everyone takes their seats in a sigh, they squeak. Both the chairs scratching the tile floor and our throats. We are an abundance of blank expression, wishing we were at home sleeping on memory foam.  In a packed room of strangers turned possible friends, the surrounding air is clogged with the sounds of pounding machinery, and noisy pipes peeking through the indigo camouflaged wall. It is quiet and still in the vicinity


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