Back from lunch. It’s 1:00 p.m.
The post lunch itis has set in — strong, almost undefeatable.

At your desk, struggling to stay conscious, fighting to push through the rest of the day.
It feels like hours have slipped by.
Must be close to quitting time.

You glance at the clock.
The dread in your stomach.
The shock of the cruelty — the cruel humour of time itself.

Hours still to go and you’re already well done.
You look again, and the horror confirmed:
only a few minutes have passed.

This isn’t just an afternoon slump.
It’s the reality of corporate torture.
A minimalist monument to the distortion of time at work.

This isn’t just a journal. It’s where you’ll scribble notes, doodles, and countdowns to freedom while the clock mocks you. Perfect for meeting minutes, venting, or sketching your resignation letter.

It’s brutal. It’s funny. It’s painfully real..