My life’s been fabricated. I’m no longer asleep. It’s past lunchtime. I feel the inevitability of my eternal collapse. I refuse to reopen my eyes and salute the new day. Yesterday was a fucking parasite. I got pushed into the realization that I was never meant to be a journalist. The interview was a mud-deep mess. I regurgitate the one last question. I picture the baldest man in the room asking, “What would you do if your superior ordered you to do tasks that you think are unethical?”
