Oh this lazy air that I breathe...
I can't stop breathing now can I! But this air, this air filled with lethargy, laziness, laid-back attitude... it's is getting to me. I can feel it.
I have never really imagined myself as slowpaced, and not urgent, so to speak. And it's almost certain that after a year I will become like that. The sense of urgency, the restlessness inside me, would have been sedated.
Yuck!
I'd be like one of those laala's sitting in those ancient banks with their paunch line far ahead of their toes who wait for the clock to strike 2 pm so that they can go back home, switch their water-coolers on and snore away to glory.
Yuck!
It's 3.25 pm for crying out loud, and this newspaper office is empty. EMPTY. Not a soul around.
Everyone's gone home to sleep. They'll come back at about 5 pm, scan the news agencies for stories, make the pages, and then go home. And day in and day out they've been doing this, and are least likely to stop.
And this air is getting to me. What do I do? How do I stop breathing?
One story... One story I have to do on what are the latest trends of beauty treatement for men, and am thinking ten times about the time I should start working on the story. There's no motivation here, except for the piles of money you get, which I am least intersted in.
I make a call, and the owner of the hep parlour says, "Oh, I was sleeping."
The other one says, "Call after two months."
I mean like whatever...
But I can't let this get to me ya. I work at the speed of light. if I have a story in mind I wanna see it in print ASAP.
I can't sit around like this in office.
But this air... it gets to you.
I gotta stop breathing here.
I am used to racing with light...
My name is...
oops... can't reveal that.
Ok... pumped myself up. Now going to get that damn story. I'm gonna wake Qatar up. This is no fucking time to sleep.
Bloody hell.
I have never really imagined myself as slowpaced, and not urgent, so to speak. And it's almost certain that after a year I will become like that. The sense of urgency, the restlessness inside me, would have been sedated.
Yuck!
I'd be like one of those laala's sitting in those ancient banks with their paunch line far ahead of their toes who wait for the clock to strike 2 pm so that they can go back home, switch their water-coolers on and snore away to glory.
Yuck!
It's 3.25 pm for crying out loud, and this newspaper office is empty. EMPTY. Not a soul around.
Everyone's gone home to sleep. They'll come back at about 5 pm, scan the news agencies for stories, make the pages, and then go home. And day in and day out they've been doing this, and are least likely to stop.
And this air is getting to me. What do I do? How do I stop breathing?
One story... One story I have to do on what are the latest trends of beauty treatement for men, and am thinking ten times about the time I should start working on the story. There's no motivation here, except for the piles of money you get, which I am least intersted in.
I make a call, and the owner of the hep parlour says, "Oh, I was sleeping."
The other one says, "Call after two months."
I mean like whatever...
But I can't let this get to me ya. I work at the speed of light. if I have a story in mind I wanna see it in print ASAP.
I can't sit around like this in office.
But this air... it gets to you.
I gotta stop breathing here.
I am used to racing with light...
My name is...
oops... can't reveal that.
Ok... pumped myself up. Now going to get that damn story. I'm gonna wake Qatar up. This is no fucking time to sleep.
Bloody hell.
posted by Once the Conman at 3:25 PM
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