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Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Where are you, Beatrice?

In which we walk on


At work there's this storage room they let us walk laps in. I think perhaps I've found the fifth level of hell, where the wrathful and the sullen are housed. Here find the sullen, slouching toward nowhere in this dim and dingy space filled with office detritus. Twenty-three laps make a mile, twenty minutes you'll never get back. It's a hard place in which to lose one's self, for the route demands attention with its short straight-aways, quick corners, and occasional co-worker. So no matter how loud the music in your ears, or how hard you ponder your in-box or your evening or world peace, you're always here, right here, in this claustrophobic circle putting one foot in front of the other. Where are you, Beatrice, when we need you?

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