You close your device and take a deep, laboured breath.
Mucus rattles as you try to clear your throat; the crunch and grind of gears in your lungs.
THE CARTOGRAPHER:
Your electrochemistry is itching and moaning for a cigarette break.
THE GRIP:
No.
Break from what?
A small resin clock rests at an angle against a book on the shelf opposite you.
A gift, from some time ago. Iridescent green.
A gold-etched cat and crescent moon embossed on its face. It is propped in such a way that the minute hand is caught against the corner of the book, preventing it from completing its cycle. Time clicks in place.
Unmoved since you tried to centre yourself. You take a moment – in real life, too – to listen to your environment.
What sounds do you notice first?
Why those?
Are you always listening to all of those sounds all of the time?
You feel the urge to try this listening elsewhere, outside maybe.
Wait, you could swear for a moment you were already outside.