45 lines
2.6 KiB
HTML
45 lines
2.6 KiB
HTML
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<!doctype html>
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<html>
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<head>
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<title>Zk | 005</title>
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<link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="/style.css" />
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<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width" />
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<meta charset="utf-8" />
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</head>
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<body>
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<main>
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<header>
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<h1>Zk | 005</h1>
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</header>
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<article class="content">
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<hr />
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<p>date: 2019-10-07
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weight: 5</p>
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<hr />
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<p>The problem of working with clients on a task with a specified end-goal, one that is finished and about which you can say, "ah, it does <em>this</em> now", is that when the project is done, there is nothing left.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>This is a problem with any task. This is a grander problem.</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>Yes, even with self-appointed tasks, even with tasks at a non job-shop. It happened just recently, too. I finished my time at IA. I got home from visiting Barac. I got the contract signed at NV.</p>
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<p>If you hit a deadline and succeed, or if you have some work travel, or if you get home from a vacation, suddenly there's this empty bit of your future where there used to be this thing. There's just a void there. A sudden lack of weight.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>And so, back then, you finished the release at work and also finished the office move in one fell swoop, and went home.</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>I went home and took my meds like a good girl, and then proceeded to dissociate right through the evening.</p>
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<p>Dissociation is a hell of a drug.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>It's a dreamy thing. It's a soft thing. It's a cottony thing. It's a muffled thing. It's watching your hands move. It's watching yourself breathe. It's feeling the air move in and out of you with a distant, slightly confused detachment. It's "ah, it does <strong>this</strong> now", except saying that about some strange machine which is not yourself.</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>I watched myself sit down in my chair. I watched myself turn on <em>Babylon 5</em>. I watched myself mow through two glasses of gin.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>You watched yourself with a metaphysical quirk of the eyebrow as you reached forward, grabbed the box of X-acto wood-carving tools --- purchased, doubtless, for some long forgotten project --- and flipped it open. You watched numbly as you slashed open the inside of your arm. There was a moment where you marveled at how long it took for the blood to well up, where you could see the white of subcutaneous fat.</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>And then the pain snapped me to.</p>
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</article>
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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2020-04-24</p>
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</footer>
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</main>
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</body>
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</html>
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