Jan. 21

1/21/2026 5:07 Correspondence 125

Six-thousand dollar questions 

The door screams open, and as he steps in, I slip through a force field containing the pungent scraps of takeaway meals, mingling in a too tiney trashcan.

It's later now, as the figure lumbers to a cluttered desk of pristine thoughtful gifts justiposing disrispected ornaments of identity. 

Taking a seat, his thumb finds a groove in his phone, a flicking pattern that, as much as he tries, doesn't truly distract him.

Falling deeper into his mind, he hears every syllable in reverse order, followed by the click of her fingernails on a disorganized alphabet. 

It's earlier now, and he is walking backward with the nice lady with a stoic face. "How are you feeling?" goes tumbling the words she's asked countless others. 

"How do you want me to respond?" He catch myself before saying. "Good, how are you doing today? " he says earnestly from the script. 

The clock ticks the wrong way, in a room full of people he's convinced are better than him, making awkward small talk with people who don't need to worry

Desperately hoping and dreading to hear the name he recognises and to be whisked from one beige room to the next. 

The sun rises on the fresh morning, its rays giggling on his face and skin as he makes simple loops with the fabric around his neck. He hopes he does well.

The sun laughs a hardy laugh for a simple, happy life. Taking pride in knowing she'll end up today exactly where she did yesterday.

Over the trees. 

Waking up back at his cluttered desk, his phone is ripped from his hand, and I decides to take the trash out.

— 

1/22/2026 12:45 Correspondence 125 cont.