She sat down on a pillow ripped from an old office chair she had found in vacant room just a week ago.  With one hand she grasped too tightly her tuna sandwich and with the other smoothed out her sensible business suit underneath her bottom so as to keep it wrinkle-free.  How could she have ended up here on top floor of a massive sky scraper, desperate to seek refuge from her vacuous co-workers?  Her tuna dripped on her pointedly conservative skirt and she grew pale and broke into a cold…

“There is something about him,” she said.  Her tongue was running alongside the inner flesh of her mouth, she released the pressure built up with a tiny click that put an emphasis on her next syllable. “I’m turned on by being next to him,” she said,” I rubbed his leg under the table, can you believe I would do that!?”  “I’ve decided I won’t see him again, I know I can’t win him over, our friendship is badly strained with the way I feel and if I ever made the mistake to sleep…

He knew it, just knew it.  He had finally figured out the innermost workings of his brain. With a confused and racing mind, the words that would drool from his mouth produced an acidic metallic mush.  The taste of the mush was bitter, studded with prickles and he found few fellow minds that found pleasure in such pallid writing.  He sat with his friend at a table with bottled water in Soho and said, “I’m fragile, in need of help, but I keep spinning around and seeing only angry or bored…

Sitting alone at his desk, he twirled a pushpin in this hand pressing it against his fingers just enough to hint at pain.  Three different pens and legal paper were unused in front of the writer in yellow light of a small lamp.  “I’m feeling lost, lonely and distracted”, he told the unsuspecting pin.  “The voices I hear from all over are shrill, sneaky or vapid; they pollute and cover me in a rubbery film. They are so powerful, I can only hope to gasp for air, meekly waggle my tongue in an…