I sit here at my desk in the tiny cubical, the depressing gray of this place drives me insane.I sit here each day, stare out the window and pray. For gun to place under my chin. It's icy cold metal caressing my cheek. This place... with all its windows , yet I see nothing. No blue sky, no birds, or people who look like ants from this height. The thought of tasting lead wets my appetite. I crave the gun powder, it intoxicates me. A suicidal trance that makes the windows look so inviting. Falling hundreds of feet would take too long, with each second that passes is time to reflect, regret and wonder, what may be...I sit here at my desk in this tiny cubical, the depressing gray of this place drives me insane.It makes my want to paint it red...a dark blood red.