A tiny figure lies at the bottom of a cardboard box.
It is surrounded by straw,
and curled up into a little ball.
Eyes closed.
It sleeps but not peacefully.
Twitching and shaking;
periodically jerking out of its fetal position
with a stiffening of its limbs and an arch of its back
as if in pain,
or ecstasy.

The four folded ***** that make up the roof of the box get pulled apart.
Blinding light pours in.
The figure stirs and squints its black eyes into vague and undefined distances that will soon fade away to nothing.
A deafening voice booms down from somewhere above the box:

"John, we were wondering if you'd consider coming in to the department today.
We know you've been under a lot of stress lately,
but it's just - I mean,
it's been three weeks already.
We could really use you.
We've been swamped."

Bogs and marshes.
That's all I see.
All I've ever known.
It's in everything I eat.
The source of all I drink.
It's all I'll ever be.
It's in my skin and bones:
Concentrated pools of misery.