My workmates scratch themselves. The sound flits into my ears from my front, from my back, and from my left side. Three scratching workmates. The one behind me cracks his knuckles then emits an overly forced sounding cough while the one before me sneezes, covering his distorted maw just in time with cupped hands. The keys of my laptop click in unison with my thoughts. It’s a simple day full of sensory input usually ignored. The small click of the joints on my glasses as I straighten them even sounds monstrous to me.
I am floating in a haze. The mist is thicker from where I have come and thinning en route to my destination. Destination or Way Station. A percentage of me is already gone and this portion annexes more and more of my persona day by day. I like it.
There are no footprints left in the fog.
