It's mid-day in your
cubicle
and a tremor is building up in your
right hand.

Palpitations, strange-waves,
Radiation.

A tremor in your right hand.

It's mid-day and there are no
windows
and you can feel the texture of the pebbled carpet
with your arms hugging yourself and your eyes 
closed.

The auras around the 
stapler, the binders, the empty coffee
containers, the shredded papers, 
the documents so neatly
clipped, 
stacked,
the rolling fabric chairs...
are not auras of light or odor or sound or 
anything with a name
but something something something
else.

Something else.

Weights and measures of days,
the ctrl-alt-deletes, the
dust, the 
thwack of switched light,
fabric talking plastic
the....

The 
Corridors.

It's midday and it is 
Sunday and you don't know where you
are.

Radiation, Palpitation, Rescuscitation,
Ligature.

Hugging those human bits in,
clutching filaments,
huddled mass of many.

Red blinking, green blinking, blue blinking.

The only color here is the color of
blinking
and all those red-purple-blue 
organs inside
are playing some tune
without you.