i have eight hours left

i have 8 hours left of my 12 and it's deep disreality hours. i am having trouble staying here. but i am stuck here.

the walls are corrugated sheet metal. the subfloor clunks and creeks; the adhesive is failing. it is annoyingly bright; i cannot hide from the light in here. the gentle whirring of many types of fans adds a sort of weight to the air.

i have no new emails. the phone has not rung in four hours; it rarely rings. i have to get up in four minutes for my hourly walk.

14 steps to the door. badge in with a loud beep, open the door and prepare for a dramatic increase in volume. walk past two rows; 9 steps from the door to the rack. write down the values. 9 steps to the door. the air gets lighter. 14 steps back.

i cross my arms on the desk, close my eyes, and put my head on my arms. after a minute or two i leave; i am no longer present. i have not gone to sleep. the world only exists in a small bubble around me.

i've been gone too long, i need to return. i lift my head and slowly open my eyes. i am slightly dizzy, fuzzy might be the word. the room fills out, i reacquaint myself with the surroundings. hello whiteboard. hello small bookcase. weird table, leather couch, silent phone. there's nothing i need to do. i put my head back down.