Sweating icicle daggers onto the sidewalk below me, with each step another casualty.
My tardiness is deadly for the daydreamers on 16th Street.
For them, time moves as snails over nasturtium petals, a slothful eclipse of orange and grey.
My heart, however, beats three paces ahead of my gait and my body is a shaky steering wheel in a foreign car.
The skin on my lips begins to peel from backpedaling into forward-thinking stratagems of how to abscond my vanity.
It really takes a 14-hour work day with a 37-minute break split into two followed by three hours of binge drinking with strangers and a six-hour nap on the train to look this disheveled.
I don't believe in outsourcing.
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