Submit!

This week has been hell for Steve. The world stays the same for him, but everything else moves forward. In fact, for Steve time may be regressing. His armor shows chinks that had been rewelded. His eyes do not seek truth or sympathy or comraderie. They look down and hope to be passed without much notice. He echoes this thought, it is not what you are to people it is what you do, but no amount of coaxing or cajoling can stop the drumming and beating on the sides of his cranium, from the walls in these rooms where he sits, from the very thin air. It does not matter. There is no flying today or anytime soon. Geometric harmony will elude us yet again. Poor Steve. He doesn't have a fucking clue....