8 a.m.

It's 8 am.

The whine of thin brakes announce my arrival.

The sound of the gravel and snow beneath the tires is cold and bitter.

I come to a stop. Far away from the door.

I strike a match and light a smoke for the walk of shame.

First, I take inventory of the coffee cups on my floor.

Is it possible to drink this much coffee?

Opening the door I go numb, except for the stiffness in my back.

My feet start moving, one after the other. Step after step.

I slip on the ice and don't give a fuck if any one is watching.

One last pull before I go in.

A designated grave.

Punch in. Fall in. Begin.

It's 8 am.