Sitting in a small, hot room. Dense air. Concrete surrounds me. Steel folding chair. The electric hum of the generator, the florescent light. Just sitting by myself. Pinboard, not touched since 2007. Lonely tiny island of industry, small grey dot across the vast desert of sage, which lay under the half-moon. The job is done, I can go home, but I will just sit for a while. Just like to think sometimes, about nothing. About the lonely feeling. No headlights down the dead road I assume. No windows inside this room, but I can feel the outside, I can feel the stars, the scattered points of orange and blue light around all the doorways. It's just me in here, what if I just started to lay here on the concrete by the generator. The world wouldn't care, this would be my purgatory for eternity, where all thoughts capable of thinking would zip through my head. Meaningless thoughts about nothing. Who else knows about this lonely place of concrete and machinery? Or the office room across the way? Occupied by someone who might not even be real. Or the old soda machine nobody uses, who replaces the soda? This is a place for flies. Not so small for them maybe, not so insignificant, maybe they only know the desert and this place. Maybe it's their whole world until they die. The small buzzing metal machines, the little rooms of bricks, and concrete, like grand monoliths of architecture in a dismal expanse of sand. Even the little unknown nooks and cranneys of this especially non-special little island of concrete hold some meaning don't they? Someone built it, or was this place here forever? The little dusty corners, the little unknown spaces underneath the vents on the roof, every little place no soul would ever think about for the entire life of time. Except me I suppose. And the flies maybe, if they could think. But I am done thinking, and I open up the door, get in my pickup truck, and drive home.