Friday, November 27, 2015


Intending to find everything in order, I entered this
last room with a thought  -  what if I suddenly
could find nothing at all? The ceiling had leaked
some, since last I was here, a yellowed thin pattern, 
a flow down a flaw. Did not make me happy to see,
that. The reinforced window glass  -  it was that kind
with the wire-mesh embedded  -  resembled nothing
so much as an opaquing and fading of a prison window,
or at least some awful factory scene. The clank and
jumble of the one person elevator faded. The gates 
were shut. I was alone enough to be really alone, and
figured  -  if I smoked  -  this would be the time and
the place for that. Over in the desk-copy area, the place
was dead : no one had lifted a cup or a page in ten years.
I vaguely remembered, about that long ago, Mr Cadkins
always sitting there with his fat cigar. He counted things.
He was always writing in ledgers. Now, he's gone  -  heart
attack two years ago at 71. Too bad. I only heard of it by
asking how he was. Bill Barelly simply made mention.

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