Pants or prizes
The sixty-pence Dr. Pepper can in the table was cold and half-empty, and a loud barking of a mutt echoes somewhere in the cafeteria. Funny thing to happen indoors. It's as if they wanted to scare the people eating, resting, working, and having conversations in the tables. I paid no mind. I continued on with what little I was doing. Questioning my methods of learning has been quite pedantic and unnecessary really. The Tesco bag that stares at me beside this portable computer mocks my every thought. It is aware and self-reliant. It needs not worry about life and hunger and love and shit. Its only goal is to be used for bagging, putting groceries like the Hovis I bought earlier today and that German salami that's perfect to go with it, add in extra cheese for flavour and filling and you got yourself a half-decent meal. But now its purpose is done there is no more reason for it to exist. Whatever it serves to offer me as its legal owner is up to me now. I drag it closer to me for no apparent reason. The salami has already been consumed in its entirety and drips of cheese pours its way to the table noticeably on the process of melting. My face squirms in disgust, and trepidation greets my aghast look open-heartedly, as if it desires it, appreciates the beauty within the madness. I then notice the screenplay documents on the right side that wants to communicate with my intentions, while the more it demands from my energy, the more I procrastinate, yet there is that subtle craving, and it erupts like a volcano in agony, and I'm teleported to another place and time.
When I wake up nothing changed. When I uttered a single word, nothing answered. When I lift my left arm, no one answered. The sixty-pence Dr. Pepper can was empty though, and the bag was gone. I didn't even finish the Hovis. Such a nasty world we live in.