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.







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