palace of winds

The corner office is unusually dark when I glance up. Leaning forward I can steal a foot or so of Marek’s view, and beyond his window it is all greygreen and lightless. Over the lunchhour I immersed myself in Brian Vander Ark’s journal so my mind is on him as I wander into Marek’s office, flicking his light off and standing in front of his window, my mind a thousand miles away from the empty suite and the work waiting strewn across my desk.

The rain is coming down in determined sheets, breaking up from car hoods in the parking lot below, an entity with breath and movement. The storm seethes and I am dreaming strangely of the open road, of warm summer wind through open car windows, my heart gone hobo. For a minute I want out like nothing else. And then I turn away and flip the light up again and return to my desk and my folders and wait for the restlessness to ease.