Most of us survivors seem to be finally growing used to the irritations that we are feeling each day, to the increasing uncertainty about the future; and to the beings that haunt our working hours.
There seems little animosity now, between us and these things. Our dealings with them now being more akin to those between the parties of a drunken office indiscretion, on the following Monday morning.
We try to avoid each other's gaze; we take our time making the tea when they are waiting for us at our desks; we feign civility, in the vain hope that this will hasten any encounter with them: and yet we know that they will not leave us until they are done.
However we have found a way to distract them. We've found that an unoccupied PC terminal appears to draw them all towards it, like moths to a flame they bathe in it's flickering cathode light. Maybe it's the light that draws them, or the warmth of the CPU.
It must be cold and dark where they are from.
V : 1 / F : 2
No comments:
Post a Comment