8:32 — coughing begins
in the stairwell’s hollow throat,
smoke scraping stone,
lungs rehearsing their daily collapse.
Moments later, the chair—
that ritual of squeaks and creaks,
a private experiment in endurance,
noise sharpened into habit.
I wonder who he thinks he is today,
playing spy with suffering,
sampling echoes like borrowed myths,
mistaking control for power.
Nationality blurs, the act remains:
air turned hostile,
silence denied,
a lesson taught by friction and breath.