so the probability of dying is inevitable. It could happen in our sleep, our cars, in our homes, at work.
You forget where you’re at when you work on the 9th floor.
I have this wonderful view, the kind most people take for granted after a while. It becomes a sort of painting instead of an actual landscape. I catch myself pretending that if some sort of fire took place, I’d be ok.
So it’s lunch time again, and I’m munching on some crackers and I’m contemplating whether or not I want to finish the wine I carefully disguised as Italian soda when the alarm rings.
“This is a fire alarm, please evacuate the building!” it yells at me.
I continue to munch on the crackers and feel my legs weaken, picturing myself trotting down nine flights of stairs.
But I get up, take my backpack and my crackers and guide myself to the staircase. I see a hoard of people, unrecognizable in the sea of panic trying to fit in one dysfunctional line down the stairs.
I feel like a sheep, a literal sheep led down by instinct.
First floor, crunch crunch, second floor, crunch crunch, third floor, tap tap tap go their high-heeled shoes forcing their tightly wrapped feet to trample trample trample, fourth floor, crunch, crunch, crunch…
First floor, I’m surprisingly alright, not bad, not bad at all…these sturdy legs did me good, I was built to last through fires and all.
I’m less hungry after all them crackers and the anticipation of death.
Death by fire, how romantic.
So the thought comes up in the sides of my mouth now, the inevitable need for love during times of despair, during times of 9th floor mishaps and knowing that we are fucked, fucked beyond these rounding 9 flights of stairs. Fucked beyond our files and our recordings, we all just need to get fucked, nice hard thrusts of re-assurance. Rolling thunderous sequenced bursts of light rays, saying silently and brightly….I love you, at least at this moment, I love you.
I see a crowd gather, the rebel crowd that ignored the drill and continued eating, continued laughing and pretending it’s all pretend.
They start to ask strange questions, and I assure them that questions aren’t strange, they’re necessary.
“Who would you fuck if the building was really burning?” I ask almost nonchalantly.
I mean, these are real concerns of mine.
They all laugh, as if such a thing is blasphemous.
I know they’ve thought of it, I know they know exactly who’d they fuck. I’d fuck myself first and get myself ready, you know, nice and moist before I head off to the second person on my list.
They all admit a half-hearted subtlety that smells like a bunch of shit lies.
I know what they’re thinking but I just don’t care.
I’d fuck them all if they’d let me, for the sake of being that infamous giver, for the sake of knowing I’d be ash come morning.

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