Aware. (prose)

At one point hours after coughing awake into a stagnant reality, he realized he was working. "I'm sick," he finally admitted, "I'm working on Saturday in the month when winter ends and spring bemoans, in limbo of stale air and scorched grass, in a world that isn’t the stuff of my dreams." The weight of this admission hit him hard; he could only believe that people at this moment were becoming conscious in the arms of their conservative partners, dashing their own dreams for a chance of security.

"Sometimes, if only could just not think much, would anyone even notice?"

dp