raining. the guy in the mirror got terribly upset when he couldn't find his deodorant this morning. he then unwrapped his towel and buried himself back underneath the sheets. considered calling in sick, decided not to. this french song was in the air, the frightened guy on the speakers' box on the top shelf staring at him, as usual. it's not sadness, it's not pain, it's not misery, not even tired anymore. not depressed, not bored, not caged. it's kinda blue, kinda light greenish. it's definitely not emptiness. it tastes like aluminum, kinda metallic. he's been around, he's seen this and that, here and there, but he's never experienced this. he thought about the things he hasn't seen, and he thought about death.

the dead guy picked up the deodorant from beneath the pile of tshirts, put on an orange shirt and went to work. he did use a bit too much coconut body butter (because they discontinued sesame) and the door knob slipped in his right hand the first time, but he managed to exit, glide down the stairs and even feel the drizzle on his forehead. it's a rainy day, dead man smiling.