They pass, these people from accounting and customer service. The smiling receptionist. Their life force is strong. We sense it in the subtle shift of the wind, this approaching vibrance.

We remember the light.

And we ooze forth from our cubicles of darkness. We joke at them desperately, implore them only to stay. To keep us company in this our long windowless nightmare. We drape ourselves over their youthful forms and cling to their ankles, hoping to wrest some small shard of hope from them, that we may huddle round it later, warming our icy bones.

"Tell us of the light!" we implore them, beseech them.

But they cannot hear us. They hurry past us, turning up collars against an involuntary chill, nervously whistling or remarking to each other that a goose has trodden on their grave.

We are lost, alone in the depths of Purgatory, Inc., under the fluorescents that eat our souls and over the carpet that tells our story in wavering, sickening patterns of grape, mustard and what may very well be periwinkle.

Sometimes, there are doughnuts.