Hustlin'

My comrades and I are trapped, for good I fear. The stifling sour air of the basement saturates my clothes and skin, the dingy secondhand fan at the doorway is but a pale whisper of the sweet night breeze just a staircase away. I yearn for fresh air, a warm bed, anything but the cold sickly glow of the computer screen in front of me.

We are tied to this. Staring endlessly at print, glaring fonts, arguing over extensions, file sizes. The servers are fickle, swallowing our hard earned layouts, hours of work lost in the abyss of nothingness. A vortex of spite and irony. A middle finger in the form of corrupted files.

InDesign mocks me.

"Font Missing"

"File Not Found"

If InDesign were a person I would smack that hoe into submission with the harshest hand.

I no longer recall what it's like to sleep, but that's fine.

Day will come soon.