Agenda item: Impotence.
Under the boardroom table, a current of meaning astroglides from chair to chair. Above, the meat puppets perform. You're in, you're on the outs, but you'll never know unless you're in the know. Above board, all seems passive and swell. A few gentle disagreements, natch. Fluid segues and quick backtracks. Back down below, the writhing contortions happen unseen, toes curling, ulcers ripening. Someone's gonna lose an ass here. Across the city, in rooms just like this, experience becomes meaningless and reputations evaporate. Behind the fake walnut doors, fake leather chairs hold insecurity bags under fake vibrating lights. This is no place for originality. This is no place to live. On the windowsill, dust dead bugs. Under the table, hidden fingernail scratches of fear. Out the window, a cold sun hides behind darkening clouds. There's a storm coming and there's no man here to face it.