My word muscles are stiff. My writing bones ache. The prose reads like a bruise.

I burst bored air through my lips, upsetting the dust on my keyboard.

I see a tangerine, withered in the shadow of an orange, withering; dust on the hand sanitizer; a rubber band ball in a novelty stein; an orgy of paper clips; surrounded by colors, none too vivid, the only highlights are the highlighters.

The building I thought they were slowly constructing around me is being stripped as bare as a gazelle felled by a lion, shred by hyenas, cleaned by maggots.

I wasn't paying attention, or I was paying attention to something that was not this building in reverse.