they're doing the mess around
friday and i've slunked into work unshaven (unshorn?), my hair a vague cloud about my head, clapped in jeans and my obama for illinois shirt. god blessum the corner office, where i can hide behind my closed door, lurking like a lovecraftian shambler on the threshold, unobserved and thus unremarked.

though i may make or take a sojourn to the kitchenette thing in order to rapscallion me some coffee or tea. or some crude made mocha. days like these i don't feel like i'm really employed here at all. just some guy who wondered into the wrong building, found himself an empty office and decided to hang about checking the internet, wondering if he'd be stopped if he took the stash of cookies from the fridge. "Oh, me? I - I'm part of the Human Resources department. No - the Online Harpsichord Division. What's that? I don't really know, yet. I'm new. I'm hoping they'll tell me."

It would be interesting if every time you banged your elbow and set  your funny bone to twanging visible rays of purple and blue light would emanate from said offended joint and radiate out and thrum in the air. Or if physical sensations could be apprehended visually by others. A cold, electric blue ache in somebody's cramped knee, for example, or a dull, snowfall static haze about a man's head indicating a headache. Imagine what a migraine would look like - a vast cloud of ink tincturing the air, rhythmically ebbing and flowing, all distances skewed when viewed through its terrible corpus, shot through occasionally with funnels of irradiating white light. Extending for yards and yards from the person's head, sometimes filling entire rooms, flowing down hallways and into elevators...