"Moe you're always cooped up in your apartment. Why not get buzzed with us for a change?"

John is sitting, intertwining a Rubix Cube's colors in its rainbow cage, protruding chin nuzzling his Nokia Lumia 900 against his cauliflower-sized hearing aid. That's how I remember him making calls - persistently distracted. A nostalgic image, though for erasure of that ear-bound clam I'd sell my owned soul. I hated it(first declaration of loathing in [bold{!}] terminology!), the way it clung to his lobe, an monstrous parasitic suckling devouring swathes of skin for sound's exchange, and I suspected he did too. But John's repetitiveness manifested mentally. Brand loyalty meant the world to him. He stuck to anything that showed him perfunctory appreciation, a cat hooked on (nips[!]), a 'pecker pegged to its perch(!), exemplifying habit. Explained our continued association, at least, even after some unfortunate corporate run-ins segregated us to opposite office ends. (How these demi[god{!}]s hustle us to tussle! They think in isolation, fragility's all one finds.) Explained why he rung me up at 12:00 in the morning to try and corral me from my cubicle, enclosed by a Coke-can parapet, my eyes glued to the stagnant screen's (white) wilderness, to grab a beer at Satin's. (That nine-level wine cellar! Reflecting, refracting, dispersing the sights!)

That's the reason I assume. But to define these typed thoughts "definitive" would skew their given truth.

To date, I've done a decent job restraining my familial proclivity for slanting what isn't readily apparent, but in the future some slips may occur. (A [side{!}])wise glimmer, passed by at a glance's clip, may miss some emphasis here, a (focus [there{!}]), a space in this text's sensibility. Does that dilute appreciation? Does that question matter? If accuracy's (the [game's]) name, why are you here? To deduce a 34-year old's sights and sounds from a cornucopia of (binary's) consequence? Think about every one of these blog...things, these telescopic (and microscopic) insights into the mind's eye. Each their owner's sieve, entrusted to (filter) out unnecessary extremities, ([dangling{!}] appendages) unsuitable for presentation, that deemed "too-icky". Each a portfolio of consideration, from bins of words plastered together on scattered canvas as a prototype, facing (trial[!]) by sculpture in the white box block of the post creator. To dispense a satisfactory product weekly, on the dot, for months on end, at the whims of those partaking! How can these craftsmen keep up with such a ravenous audience? How their flaws pop in this shine, their blemishes fester in their opus! Chasing grander heights, all eventually fall.

But not I.

To rally back on course! Of course I answered, after an all-too familiar recorder

([{<click>}])

"I can't go now. The EE-2 Brew scrum needs monitoring. Kent's going to disembowel Dave if he finds out we're not making North American sales thresholds and resorting to -this- spectacle to reassert product dominance."

"The hell, Moe?" Incredulity, then laughter. "EE-2 Brew? You know it's April Fool's tomorrow, right? We're only..." keys clacking (water bottle brought to perspired forehead - for diffusion) "...down .21- shit, it's goin' up right in front of me. Why else roll out -those- remedies?"

"Because KO's numbers aren't adding up." Paper-rustle, pencil-brandish,

elevator-ding

diminished (perceptive - too late) on approach. "I've sent fifteen hundred faxes these past two weeks from Kent to heads of every multinational department, their subsidiaries,"

2nd floor ding, 

"THEIR national department heads," 

3rd floor ding, 

"everybody moderately accountable on the corporate ladder to Kent and the board,"

4th floor ding, 

"even people in places able to hold him accountable for his past actions. And this is just the past two weeks."

5th floor ding.

"Well, Moe, it does look like they're people in your department doing their damn jobs. I don't see how this is special at all."

"If distributing nearly two thousand faxes that your own secretary can't read isn't suspicious, I don't know what is. Even that doesn't spook me as much as how bad Kent looks. He's so pale, all the time, comes in gripping his wrists shivering when it's 75 degrees out, no wind chill. What the hell's shaken up our boss so much that he's digging through the crates for medicine and reaching out to all his associates, SECRETLY?"

"Who cares? What the public doesn't know won't hurt'm." His side - a retch, then repeated coughing. "Sorry, must've cracked my ribs or somethin'. Went hiking a week ago. Those woods ain't the fondest place. Think they just about appreciate skinny men like me as much as I do their thickness."

6th floor ding.

"It's alright. If you need rest, get it. Thanks for listening, John."

7th floor ding.

"Ehh, it's doable. Get enough yourself. You've stayed in late for the last few months."

8th floor ding.

"Still monitoring me, huh? Haven't changed a bit?"

My floor ding.

(Pause. Phlegm-choked cough.) "Yeah, (ain't a [bit])." 

([{<CLICK>}]) 

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