Hungover.

February 23, 2007

The children scream in the playground. I cringe as the high-pitched screams of innocent happiness run through me.

Cars roll past on the street. Horns honk, startling my fragile body.

The security man at the train station stomps ominously back and forth, his footsteps like a kick-drum in my mind.

The train crawls along. It’s cramped. It’s warm. Claustraphobic.

The white office light and the brightness of my screen make my eyes bleed.

The janitor whistles his way around the building. I plug in my earphones and turn the music up.

I wait for the paracetamol and fruit juice combo to kick in. I’m not as young as I once was.

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