
Hard At Your Desk All Day
Tomorrow's already mine, sinner. All of it, nine to five, and you're paying for it tonight in advance.
Eight hours, eight instructions. Nothing anyone around you would notice — a hand in a pocket, a word
said under your breath, thirty seconds in a locked room. But every hour on the hour you'll feel it
land, and you'll do it, in a shirt, in a building full of people who think they know what you are.
And you'll have paid for every one of those hours tonight, on your knees, in advance, before you even
knew what they were.
