q.e.d.

thick fingers drum along formica, flesh padded sound roundrunrounds the room the art of waiting is necessitated, never willed, never wanted, but birthed by circumstance and blighted by inconvenience he draws out a stare, as a thin and wispy sigh; here is purpose, the reason only untoward (whispered for posterity) waiting moves past him ending baits you and now... all once ashen, now piss clear