MILGRAM'S PROGRESS

The day came in slowly, like knotted hair dragged slowly through a comb. Those little fists of cereal, emptied from the box, crashed quietly against the bowl and settled in silently. Coffee was a beckon-curl rising from a favourite cup. Cracked edges. Familiarity. Work was a forty minute crawl through other people's machine-made problems. Roadworks where universal laws seemed to lapse. The arrival was no better: searching, all that searching, for a simple place to park. Someone playing a radio too loud down the morning hallways. That endless echo of footsteps, that looping sound wave of workers past, all those weekday paths returning back long after death, like the light from stars.