text: You're on auto-pilot when someone pokes their head into the cubicle. "Hey," he says, sort of stepping in but not quite entering. "Hey. Hey." "Neigh," you mutter. "There's no hay here, little horsey. You clop along, now." "Hah. But, hey, uh . . . ." You tell him your name. "Oh, right. Hey, you know, uh, you know you're breathing, right?" "What?" Your fingers almost stop typing. "Yeah, you're breathing right now. And you can see your nose, too, uh, and you can feel where your tongue is in your mouth right now." "What?" He smiles, shakes his head as if you're a lost cause (and maybe you are, so what?), and leaves. Auto-pilot activate. Well, not quite; just what was he blabbering about then? You might have seen him before, might have even sat across from him once during a break or meeting, but you never caught his name, or if you did, you forgot it. Is that what that was about? Were his words some kind of oblique insult? So what, you tell him and yourself right there in your head, people forget things all the time. Still, his words, however juvenile, appear to have left something in you. Yes, you are in fact breathing, so much so that it's a wonder you don't have to do all that manually, consciously, by yourself, as you are being forced to do right now. And it is true, too, that you can see your nose ever so slightly, and who could forget that tongue of yours resting in your mouth, never in the same spot for too long like a worm? Quit it. It is time for work. Spreadsheets, numbers to crunch, rows and columns. The clock. Soon enough, you make it through the day. When you arrive home and stand there for a moment's silence, you take in a breath of air. Then another. Then another. Do your nostrils gape? Oh, shut up. But even numbing your skull with videos after videos, each purporting to be more hilarious than the last, does nothing. In fact, leaving yourself open like this, cross-legged on the mattress like a monk seeking enlightenment, seems to invite thoughts rather than prevent them. You heard somewhere that the stereotype tin-foil hats conspiracists are often depicted wearing actually attract radio-signals. Something to do with the metal. God, how long ago was that? What other things have you overlooked? How many things have you, without even thinking about it, filed away? Your birthday is coming. Okay, but what else? Nobody really remembers their birthday until it is time. Once you went to a playground, or something like a playground, and made friends with a kid you never saw again. You've lost your keys at least once before. And, as if it is the most appropriate step to take next, your mind says, "One day you will fall asleep without waking up." Well then. That isn't so bad, you try to counter. But, just how long has it been since you last thought of the one thing that WILL to happen to you, to everyone else? You can't even think of when you first learned of death. It feels like something you just knew, like how people just know that Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker's father and so on; even people who've never seen Star Wars. People just know. You don't learn how to breathe. If people just know, your brain decides to think up, then what is something big people don't know? It sounds like what one of those Chinese fortune cookies would say. Except wrong. You can't put your finger on it. A sound pulls you out of yourself for a moment. Beeping? Ah, it's your food. Much needed after such a dumb conversation with yourself. Its scent teases your nose. It feels warm in your mouth, and your tongue brushes against it. You can almost sigh. That night you dream something big is going to happen. In the morning, as your car glides through the same route, a bird flies across the sky in the windshield, perhaps to relay a message. Trees shake their leaves, the shadows of those leaves dancing quiet dances on sidewalks and buildings. The light changes. A jogger can be seen in the window to your right, before he, too, is lost with the blurring scenery. Eventually you park your car in the lot which is in the lee of your workplace, step out and step on something. The ground is bare, and so is your shoe. You have your wallet with you, you check, and inside are your cards and cash. Your keys are in one of your pockets, your phone in another. Nothing else, but there is something. Something you dreamt? Something you see. Right now, in the parking lot. The cars are empty, of course they are. On your way to the entrance, the air around you glints. Cars are drifting along streets with clutters of stars on their roofs. Your workplace has them as well, in rows after rows of shining windows. The few shop windows you can glance from here have them on display, beside their mannequins and other products. Those stars, if that's what they are, move along with you. It's glare, you dimly realize. It sounds familiar to you. Glare from the sunlight. Far down the street, where the cars (are they empty?) shimmering in the heat are devoured by a steep incline below, something is hovering. The back of a traffic light? You rush inside like a child turning off the lights. That's it, something has turned off or on, one of the two. Something big is going to happen. A few of the people stalking about or talking to one another might be looking at you, thinking you're a loony, so you slow down, but not too much, you want to be ready. There he is, what's-his-name. Your feet carry you there, as if you're strolling over to a friend, and you say, "Hey, there." He turns his whole body to you. "Oh? Do I know you?" You tell him your name. "Well, it's nice to meet you. What's up?" There's no other way to ask it. "Oh, nothing, really. Um, what have you've been thinking about?" He appears to seriously consider this, but then he says, "Lately? Not much. Work, you know, but!" Your heart rises. "I am gonna go with a couple buddies to see the big game this weekend." "Right," you manage. "Right. That sounds fun." You make sure to not be too obvious as you shuffle toward the cubicle, facing backwards. Nobody smiles that much, do they? He's not even talking like everyone else. You bump into someone and they hold you by the shoulder. You turn, ready to scream at the cubicle wall. Your face burning, you huddle inside. Hopefully no one saw that. A blurry dark figure approaches you and seats itself as you do the same before the black screen. As the screen powers on, the figure is engulfed by blue light and the computer login greets you. A note has been stuck to the edge of the screen. It reads: "SOMETHING BIG IS GOING TO HAPPEN!" Around it are little drawings of confetti, party poppers and a party hat, all done neatly in colorful markers. You toss this in the wastebasket. Think about. There's nothing to think about. Stare at the screen, the words and numbers and symbols, the pixels, the light. Don't you do it. Keep your head straight, eyes looking ahead. Like an exam at the eye doctor's, and maybe you need a doctor right now, but all you need to worry about right now is doing your work, getting through the day, and maybe looking up some help. Those are just coworkers passing by. Those eyes are yours. Yet that reflection in the screen is not. And this time you do scream, you scream your head off for all to hear and you run and shut a door behind you, any door, and you pace around in the small white-tiled room with lines of sinks and stalls and a big window. No windows. You lock yourself in a stall and there are voices crowding at the door. It opens. "Hello? Are you--" *"Leave me ALONE!"* The door shuts, murmurs to other murmurings. Footsteps, going away or here, you can't tell. And all the while, something *is* approaching. Something big is going to happen. You know this and there's nothing to listen for. Just don't think about it, that's it, think something else, think about your ragged breathing and your snotty nose and your dry tongue in your dry mouth, and sooner or later it'll leave. It'll disappear. You'll forget about it for good. It's in your head and you control your head damn it, you can think by yourself and not think, just stop it stop it stop it stop *it*! He put something in your head, didn't he? Mr. Mystery. Some psychological trick he read about, probably. There he is, right one cue. His footsteps clacking along the tiles, stopping before your stall. He'll open it and gloat about it all and it'll be some big prank the whole office threw together, ha ha, just scaring one of our loyal employees, a little hazing don't hurt . . . . Slowly, very slowly, almost without making a sound, it gets in under the stall door.