Dirk wandered into a fever dream disguised as an office cubicle. He'd just been assigned a post at a very important firm that made magic by counting numbers. He slid into an available stall and waited for work to flow in. Nervous thoughts pinged and boinged throughout his racing brain. A swath of perspiration that originated in his arm pits spread to the front of his baby blue button down chambray shirt. The boss lady said to Dirk "add up the columns" and "make the figures make sense." After a quick calculation, he couldn't get the centum to square up. He was now carrying a deficit on Day 1 and knew it to be grounds for termination. At prior engagements he had witnessed such horrors befall colleagues and refused to believe he'd be kicked out of the clan before lunch. Dirk missed the portends. He'd undervalued the projection. He envisioned his mother tossing his belongings into the street. He hearkened back to high school when he didn't make swing choir and nobody ever told him the reason why. Now, just like then, Dirk had presented an unsatisfactory performance that would forever be a mysterious blight on his ability to see/hear/feel the same vibrations as the rest of humanity.
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