he sits alone in his office, a cubicle-sized room, with no windows, except the one in the door. No air circulation, so the heat from the computers fills the room to the point of discomfort. The sound of the hard-labor workers haranguing each other is only distracting if it gets too close to the chicken-wire glass. Tonight, he sits betrayed, only slightly, by an ally, possible his only. Betrayed by circumstance, or by his own pig-headedness. Both of which amount to nothing but being petty, or overcome by apathy. Tonight, he sits, dismayed, with the finish line in sight. It gets closer with every day that passes, but is it close yet, or is there still a great distance to cover? Tonight, he sits.

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