I don’t hold it against them. Not the piss, or the vomit or the poor manners, the lapses in thought, the absence of silence. It’s only Week 2, after all. I’m optimistic at 8 AM.
The clock above this table ticks too slow. I know because I’m trying to forget I’m even here. It’s high up on the dirt yellow wall mocking me. The walls aren’t even that high. Fucking clock.