You do not fit

You do not fit at the desks. You fit beneath them on the floors, the sidewalks, the murky canal floors where things pass by above you drawn by tidal action, or by the impulse to work, to repeat. Down on these horizontal expanses you cannot repeat. There is only movement across the unmarked terrain upon whose flatness you cannot find your origin. You inch forward, you roll over, you recross your path but never retrace it. Your path began at the sea so it must not end there. Nor must it end here, in a dead end, you lean against your reflection, your palms turning pale green, fidgeting upon themselves reflexively. They trace, lost against the surface of the desk partitioned into squares, curves and wandering webs into the moisture. The bare, reflective tendrils quickly disappear back into fog erasing from the closest to your chest out to the horizontal edge of the desk, against the colourless sky so that you cannot see where you began, so you continue to trace. The paths all sink away into a diffused wake, you are left with movement which you cannot stop or you will disappear. The impulses sink away. Impulses are minute, over time they affect solid surfaces and bodies, if the bodies remain long enough, if the impulse program is followed, if you can keep from drifting away, or falling to pieces.