Life’s Cold Cubicle Must Melt By Noon On Friday

As silent snowflakes drifted down from blunted tips of skyscrapers, all was quiet inside 860 Broadway.

The brick-lined building contained a handful of heads bent toward glowing screens, crooked necks testament to their owners’ devotion in this collective ennui as muted minds drifted away to the grey sky.

A hush had settled in on the top story of that heavy building on Broadway. Only a persistent high pitched hum could be heard; it had begun to seep into their brains and it clung to the edges of every head, consuming the empty air with its relentless ringing.

It followed them down subway vents and into train cars, piercing their ears as they glided across icy sidewalks and even crept into their beds at night while they slept.

The ominous hum grew until it subsumed their minds the way darkness devours the sight of a man that’s spent too long in a red car with the motor running and the windows closed. It begins with a tiny black spark, then chips away at the light until awareness evaporates.

The building dwellers turned their heads to the sky and imagined the vast swath of icy desks splintering, the quiet air crumbling, ennui falling to its knees and the hum becoming a distant memory as Friday rolls in, the sun presses from behind clouds and the snow stops falling.

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