![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Perhaps we'll be covered in a future article on 'desk snorting.'
Each night is different yet the same for her. She sits, staring at the flickering lights above and in front. The hours fly or crawl, as the strings of time get pulled faster or slower, but at a constant rate towards the end.
She sits. She breathes. She absorbs.
Occasionally she moves.
The bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom. Occasionally she cleans herself up and goes outside, looking for distraction.
And still the hours pass. Painstakingly slow. Extremely fast. Always to the end.
A victim of the Nightly Tinkering of Time.
She sits. She breathes. She absorbs.
Occasionally she moves.
The bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom. Occasionally she cleans herself up and goes outside, looking for distraction.
And still the hours pass. Painstakingly slow. Extremely fast. Always to the end.
A victim of the Nightly Tinkering of Time.