Smoke fug hugs him, tugs at him, its fingers linger in threadbare cardigans, as he shuffles the scuffed trail across the room. Burnt toast and mug of tea to find space amongst cigarette cemetery, and the death rattle of countless martyred ballpoints choking their last dreams and declarations over stained sheaf.
This desk is wombed, cocooned in a wall cavity, plasterboard removed, wood frame remains and then just honest brick. Honest brick honeycombed. Twenty four seven he is drone. His glasses removed, red-ringed eyes rubbed raw, bloodshot, mind half-cocked, semi-detached. Assimilated in his chair. To watch her through the wall, her, in there.
Outside is bitter cold and just light, white under frost and hazed through fog. People move about on this Tuesday, this work day, to offices and factories, to nine to five. This, his inside, is nine to nine to nine to nine all-time. ‘Career choice’ (with air fingers and in reverse order): philosopher, detective, deity.