When I get home from a hard day's work, it seems that I can't stay awake without slugging back one or two beers. The beer inhibits my capacity to think too deeply about my lot, and how I've just spent the last eight hours doing nothing. Television is so much more entertaining under the influence of alcohol, as well.
In the lunch room at work is a hazy, bluish painting of waves rolling up on a beach. In the centre of the picture, the sun is obscured by a large, black cloud, but some light radiates from out the edges of the mass, and illuminates the fringe of the waves. It's a calming picture, in a way. If I could smuggle my camera into work without it being stolen, I would take a picture of the thing.
Tomorrow is payday, and, if I can make it through without quitting, that will be one full week as a working stiff. Each day I show up with the intention of making my intentions (to quit) known, but then a strange voice calls out to me from behind the little black cloud in the painting, saying, "Don't awake The Sleeper."