⏱ 4 Minute Read ✍🏻 30th January 2018
Overwork and pressure have put grit in his blood. Skin shadowy, tanned ashen from artificial light, mouth soured by stale air, back teeth aching from the lock-jaw of stress. There is shrapnel in his back; shot through with gristle, steel cables of torsion in his neck. His blood pumps thickly and sluggishly, sludging through brittle arteries, pooling as concrete in his chest. Later that night, insomnia mocks sleep, acid burning through bone-dry eyelids. Blinking blindly in the sickly glow of dawn, the road offers an escape.