Lee Jones rode the elevator to the ground floor. He left the offices and started towards the far side of the car park. It was a clear, crisp wintry day. Once he got to this car he realised with a pang of annoyance that his key's weren't in his pocket. They had been. What the hell had he done with them?
"Fuck!" he screamed. Some birds fluttered skyward. A bewildered old lady turned to look at him.
Oh wait. They were in his coat pocket. He exhaled deeply and then forced himself to chuckle. He grinned sheepishly at the old woman. What the fuck was she doing wandering around the car park anyway?
He got behind the wheel and began driving to the beach. A cassette lay in the open mouth of the tape deck. He nudged it in. Throbbing Gristle. He turned the sound up, began nodding his head emphatically. He punched the roof of the car and yelped. His eyes rolled back to their whites, he bared his teeth in a demented grin. Shit, he had to get it together. He inhaled. Held it. Exhaled deeply.

Lee lay in bed composing poetry. His dog writhed about on the carpeted floor, apparently satisfying various itches. Lee regarded the dog with some fondness. He began composing a poem for the dog. Very tender stuff. Heartfelt. He grinned, drooling all over the A4 slice of paper. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Once he was finished he tore off the sheet and went over to crouch beside dog. He placed the poem on the creature's back and then clapped the dog, stroking the piece of paper along its fur. He tried to wrap the paper around dog's head as a sort of makeshift shawl but dog became perturbed and wandered off. Lee sighed and climbed back into bed.
One of these fucking days he'd get his shit together. He just knew it. He fucking felt it. But until then... There was just this inanity. Scribbling shite poetry. Awkwardly cuddling dog. Becoming exasperated. Contemplating philosophy. Breathing.
He felt good.