Ferris, Joshua. Then We Came To The End.

Why was it so terrifying, almost like death, one morning of a hundred, to walk back to your own office and pass alone through its doorway?  Why was the dread so suffocating?  Most days, no problem.  Work to be done.  A pastry.  Storm clouds out the window that looked, in their menace, sublime.  But one out of a hundred mornings it was impossible to breathe.  Our coffee tasted poisonous.  The sight of our familiar chairs oppressed us.  The invariable light was deadening.

(Is it too, too freakishly bourgeois to admit that I kind of miss working?  Ok, I really miss it.)