Your agenda as of 4:30 AM has lines at regular intervals
like the beating of a drum. The present is itself a red line, descending
like an elevator, through the shaft of drumbeats
pulled down not by gravity but coffee, arms extended
over the quadrants, adjusting, like a thin red beam, descending
through the column of appointments.
At lunch, the judges drink a drink or two. The attorneys, only if it is Friday
and/or they are a partner. The physicians can drink freely because
they know better. The generals drink at lunch always, because they must.
What remains is drunk by the army.
The drum beats out the bill.
The hours rake the messages up like leaves, in loose and fragile piles.
An errand is like an atom. Anything can be broken down to its scale
and no further, supposing that it is real.
New voicemail from Unknown Caller at 7:53 PM
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