Work Office

 My office has a door leading to the roof of the parking tower. However, the key has been broken off in the lock. When I moved into my office, I tried to get that door open. Needle-nose pliers couldn’t grip the shaft in the tumblers. It could just be a random key fated to fill a misfit hole. The worst part is that I can’t clean the windows. Grit plasters the glass like plaque on a homeless man’s teeth. But while the view is hazy, it is still a view. In the cold, the door creaks as it adjusts. I feel crazy as I dart over my shoulder, expecting a squeegee bearer to spy my nose picking or me masturbating into a trash can. Did he see how long I spent researching alpine parrots? No one is ever there, but I always start. 

In the apartment, as Katie sleeps, I listen to the darkened ceiling sing whispers. However no one walks in the upper apartment. This used to worry me. I anticipated distant voices to emerge from these mumbles. What would they say? I looked forward to when the voices might speak. It would be less lonesome than the waiting. How would we communicate? Later, would visions come? If they were of an ecclesiastical bent, could I be a prophet? Is this my atrophied mind staying active by way of deicide as god’s messenger? Would I need to become hermetic? Ascetic? Acetic?

My family has a history of heart disease and mental disorders, as all families do. Could this disorder make me a more interesting person? How long could I conceal it from my bosses? My wife?