Clocks are strange, they don’t have agendas but move promptly.
Words don’t get written fast when you think. Your fingertips think for themselves.
What makes someone feel worse than working?
Nothing makes me feel worse than not working.
Production! Hunger leaves a bittersweet taste of a savory draft.
Enough is enough, it must be on time.
Six hours have passed on a deadline of pressed lines and blurred ink.
Meeting after meeting, adamant in my persistence. Work is good for the soul.
A cluttered desk is flattering, but my checklist is seductive.
Midnight yields an expectation and I expect it. My battery does not.
Clocks are strange, but my agenda is stranger.
Time spent for good is not always time spent wisely.
My alarm will ring again.
