There is a glaze over my eyes. I am not here nor there. I have started building a fort out of my paper work. I will hide in it and take a nap. My shirt collar is a little too tight and my pants are doing a weird dance of riding, falling, followed by light binding. It is a dance that should be outlawed, it is unfit for a nice pair of pants to carry on this way. I want to run away and live in the woods where phones don't ring and I can't hear my coworkers breathing.

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