19th
It’s like all you’re trying to do is record a bathroom typist in silence, but the recording captures the subtle sounds of the realtime transmissions between the dude’s Blackberry and Skynet. And then, as quickly as it all started, you’re running for your life, down hallways and around corners, desperately pushing past coworkers and screaming for help.
And you’re bargaining with the only thing left in the world from which you have even the slight shred of a chance at getting a reprieve, “Please, god, please let the elevator doors be open. For the love of that threshold where human catches sight of divine, let me get out of this alive.”
And in an instant more, you’re on the ground, gasping for air, staring up into a perfectly blue sky, a sky just like the sky on the morning of September 11. But earlier. Much earlier.
And as you heave for breath, it hits you. It’s only Spring.
There’s still time.
