Pinch, punch, first of yet another month - and now the same sight, here at the end of yet another shift. From the pigeon holes, all of the forwards have departed. No trace now of I, Fist, stuffing them in, one by one by one. Flicking this floppy sheet forward there; fingers nudging pages straight here, neat and straight, neat and straight - not a trace. And my monitor, the same sight: emails and a blog.

And yet again, invisible but everywhere, an eternal mystery. How, once more, has she failed to materialise? The dreamed-of woman? Her, with her school-girl socks pulled up to her knees, the skimpy pants, a little loose about those lilting hips? Her, tip-toeing about the place, surveying him - him sprawled in a ball on the floor like a little fist, but staring up, gaping up? Her so tall, legs like beams of light filtering through to dark forest floors? Then her, pulling those pants to one side, perched upon this chair, legs lifting up upon this desk, pointing herself at this monitor - and then she summons a finger of fist to touch her, and pulls it inside of her pleasureflesh, and - and - and -

- and then out it comes, flying, an explosion of female fluid, scented with citrus fruits, a subtle hint of vinegar, coating the monitor, flooding the pigeon holes, drowning the body sprawled on the floor, who can no longer say what day it is, or what time it is, or what will happen in the very next instance.