I work for a publisher. Dash all preconceptions you might have about tall, marbled offices. Force from your brain thoughts of arm chairs with plaid clad editors licking pencil tips as they scribble on pages. We’re more chewing gum and shoelaces, walls lined with computers and sinews of network cables and wiring. My office is the Matrix’s bastard inbred southern cousin.
And today, it became a horror movie.
Because I had to crawl to the edge of this
To reboot this
Because I was alone in the office, there are no pictures of me teetering on the rolling chair as I tried to hoist myself onto the desk. There’s no evidence of me balancing precariously, 10 feet above the gray floor, contemplating what would happen if I fell. How long before someone discovered me? Would the technology just absorb me into the collective? Maybe I was always destined to be delivered to the technology. It has all happened before and will all happen again.
Or maybe watching Battlestar Gallactica after a night of horror movies was a bad idea.