I turn my head slowly over my shoulder, just so I can catch her doing something else: unbuttoning her white clean uniform, maybe. Because she is kind of hot, or maybe I’ve spent so much time in here that anyone becomes hot. And she is there, sitting in white clean clothes, in this fluorescent white padded room with no windows. In freshly pressed clothes, with clear stockings on, and clean white shoes, she has a clipboard that she keeps a record. Jotting down every time I look back from my corner. Where I’m sitting, I’m dressed in red and black plaid and dark blue jeans. Barefoot, I tap to an unknown beat as the room only gathers her, just her scribbles. Buying time, I’m sitting at a desk with stab wounds for graffiti, typing to a ghost.