The phone rings. I pick up.

"Why can't you simply drop the pose?" a voice insists.

I dissolve into mist for more than a minute.

Lucky for me the phone don't clatter off my desk when it fall. The phone instead drops rather inaudibly to the carpet.

When I phase back in
the cushion of my seat is moist and there's a beery odor.

I pick the receiver up off the carpet and listen.

"I'm still here," says the voice.

I hang up.
Go back
to work, but

it's no use. I start writing poems about mutations for the rest of the day