Office Clone

My brain is melting, slowly leaking out into a puddle of uselessness. Lack of activity leading to atrophy. Motor skills are next to go. My brain has been idling too long, the exhaust causing me to choke, but still I remain in the garage. Standing in this comfortable spot of unmotivation. The floor worn down in a small circle from my pacing. The track that I walk, the same path that I tread. Constantly moving in the same direction but never advancing. Bloodshot eyes even though I have slept adequatley. Bloodshot eyes to color this bland world. Something to add a tint to this blandness. Spreadsheets and numbers raining down like acid, copier codes and fax numbers like evil needles that slowly bleed me dry. Soon only a puddle will remain, too lazy to mop it up. A mother bird spitting out the chewed up food from the past, feeding it to myself. Balancing on a spiderweb of the future unsure whether to jump off or just fall back into it's silky arms. A spiderweb hammock made from strings of given up dreams and 401k's. A closet full of dress shirts, everyday dressing for my funeral. The walking dead stumbling through the office. In a barnhouse full of asses, thinking I am the only cock. But my chest doesn't protrude, I have no prideful crow, I have weak whimpers of agreement, small nods of understanding. Shuffling papers that I would rather burn, answering calls that I would rather ignore. Thinking of death in the elevator, knowing that the future could be much brighter. Still, what if this plummeted to the ground right now, would I be happy for my early retirement. Would they have a potluck or cake in my memory. Deaths posted like announcments for parties. My picture staring back as people asked, who is he? How did he go? I don't think I ever saw him here. That's because I am already a ghost, a phantom in a cube, slinking by you and out the door. As soon as that little hand reaches that tick I will dissappear floating above you, transported away, smiling knowing the day is done, my sentence served. Coming home to love and warmth, shedding this cape that cloaks my identity. Washing my face with bourbon, changing my head with the thoughts of the weekend. Taking my smile out of my drawer and placing it back on my face. The nightime gets this smile, it is a nocturnal animal, happiness does not like the light.