The world is contained with a shrug and a shroud, the gray chill settling every bet. Fingers crack and flesh breaks, the work unexceptional and unending. It is that tune that plays on and on, even as you wince and curse. This pale aching moment, the weight of day upon day.
You drive four hundred miles just to fill out a time card. You finally arrive home, only to find new ways to fail. The things as they are written, the things better left unsaid-- they all surface, slow and blunt. No one tells you anything, but you know you are only getting worse. That pot, watched or not, is bound to boil.
It should be enough to say it once. And said a thousand times ought to be enough to get it right. The sickness and the repetition and the frustration and the empty all add up, and soon no one is left listening. Nothing left to say, and still you can't stop talking. The conversation drags on, between you and the dusty walls. The conversation drags on even though you know you need to go.