Technotheolinguamancy

In the evening I'm supposed to sing to a disjointed and poorly laid out room full of people. On a Thursday. At a dive bar. With a ten dollar cover. I'll sing, but I doubt it will be to anyone. 

For now I am sitting quietly behind a desk in Albany. Typing. Deleting. Pretending. Clacking randomly into Notepad and copying the results into translation software hoping I can discover the voice of God. Technotheolinguamancy.

No luck yet.

Unless all any God can utter to this pathetic and quickly rotting world now is  "fhoeihbqoiheg  jpij pijuw3rj; p poj jw0fw-0e.". But, really, what else is there to say?

Sip from my second Red Bull of the day. Check my phone. Play a number of rounds of solitaire. Win a few. Lose a few. I'm getting much better at it, now that I see that it really is a game of strategy and not luck. Maybe a bit of both.

Pick at trail-mix on my desk. Pick on flat earthers online. Pick out songs to sing later. Kill time. I'm getting fired soon anyway. I can feel it. It doesn't matter. Eat my trail mix. Fuck off. Go home and then sing songs to, about a, pathetic and quickly rotting world.

"Do you think Pizza-gate would have made it worse?" Charlie, my only tolerable co-worker, asks me from her cubicle across the room.

"Yes."

Below my monitor I have the foil wrappers of five chocolate coins peeled apart and spread out as if a small pile of gold. Next to that, a thermal mug given to me by the organization for Christmas. On the front it reads; "You Make Our Team Golden." The mug is black and gold. There is too much fucking gold on my desk. Too much gold. Two tape dispensers. To hell with all of this shit. I open the drawer to my right and set the mug in it. I open the drawer to my left and sweep the foil into it. I don't throw it away. The potential for some bit exists as long as I hold on to it. I wouldn't want to betray the bit. 

Slouch and lean my head back. Apply pressure to the base of my skull against the back of the chair. Close my eyes for just a moment.

Jolt awake. Twenty-two minutes have disappeared.

I slept about four hours last night. Rowan was over. How it goes, how it goes. Four hours and an hour in traffic, eight at work and an hour until I have to be at the dive bar to wait for three hours to play for a half hour to go home for an hour to sleep for six. How it goes, how it goes.

But I got twenty minutes in and that's something. They call it a "power nap" or some dumb shit like that, I think. I got away with it and that's all that matters, save for feeling minutely better than I had earlier.

On Friday I'll sleep.

I will sleep.