It is early morning. It is quiet.
A sneeze shatters the stillness. My pen slides across the page. The pen nib marks these curved lines into paper, these words.
It is early morning. It is dark.
My machine hums its own melody. Red and orange lights flicker sporadically.
Voices filter through the dimness, a burst of laughter, a spatter of Malay, a high-pitched exclamation.
It is early morning. My colleages are having a packed breakfast and my nose twitches slightly as the crackling of paper packages reaches my ears.
It is early morning. I am wearing a high-waisted skirt and a crisp white shirt.
I lean back in my chair. My phone lights up and buzzes against the formaica table-top.
In a few moments the lights will flicker on. The flourescent glare will bathe everything in white.
I will move my mouse across the table and check my email. The office phone will ring noisily and someone will answer. They will take a message and a name. Their pens will slide across the page, marking out the letters, the words.
The rhythmic tap of the keyboard will mark the time till lunch, and again till the end of the work day.

Tomorrow it will begin again. This world will renew itself in the light and half-light.

Is this it, I ask, is this it.

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