His fingers play with themselves under the brim of his desk, and his eyes peer through

the
dancing palms to the leather coffins resting on the carpet. Sweat weaves cautiously along his hairline,
runs along the neck, and hides in the linen collar. A tick-tock envelops the near silence of his breathing.
The room is decorated with undeciphered symbols and ornamentations, carefully framed so as to draft
an air of mystique or sophistication across the lump of grey sports-coats and equally grey pants
twiddling in the chair. A bustle sneaks in from outside, people rearranging information, their legs, their
mouths…but barely more than ambience. So he sits. And waits.

His secretary has already said good night, almost fifteen minutes ago. They’re in a cab now, eyes
glazing past bars, drugstores, nail salons. The driver might have music playing, and there’s a slim chance
that news sirens wail out the speakers [[“THE END IS COMING! THE END IS COMING! REPENT ALL YOU
SINNERS, REPENT! RAPTURE IS UPON US!”]], but in all likelihood some music has made it way to the
backseat, where the secretary remains lost in some Borgesian labyrinth, and mingles with the motor of
the city.

His fingers are still. He didn’t realize it was dark out. His last thought…He can’t think of his last
thought, he just sees his fingers twisting and feels them still at his side. He remembers hearing the tick-
tocks, and his attention shifts to the still murmuring clock resting on the wall.

The cab driver dropped the secretary off and returned to the center of the city. Giants that once
lumbered across continents remembered in metal-lithic idols and putrefaction. Cars and other metal fish
swim in the tar slicing between and around the sleeping ancients. A rhythm stirs beneath, marching
under dreams and remembrances of mossy stone, to the kami of the forest, to the slumbering Turtle,
some vibration reaches out, something signals. The river trembles, the cab-fish rests near the bank. A
pillar of flame descends and annihilates the giant effigies and pitch rivers.

The tick-tocks are interrupted by a ring-rang-ring-rang. He can’t read the clock. The bell touches
him, but he doesn’t know why. He wonders, now swiveled to window-gaze, nothing in particular but
dreams of the stretch of lights dancing with clouds. The tick-tocks have resumed, but the ring-rangs
linger somewhere. Tantalus. A pretty flower walks out of his dreams.

Other cabs, ones in other cities, who drove other secretaries home, are still playing news
stations’ apocalyptic rambles. They keep driving, the end hasn’t reached them yet.

He leaves his office and climbs the stairs to the roof. From there, the flower approaches,
catapulting the lights into the sky. He climbs the railing and stares into the sun, his eyelids close but he
keeps staring, he begins to remember. Of course! He’s a pigeon on a summer day, perched and parched.
He spreads his wings and takes flight.