What is it we’re doing among parodies and spoofs, gardening statements and occupational gloom, pickling our scorn and passive reproofs around tables in dreary workrooms? What is it we’re trying at the end of the day before we climb into our sports cars and utility vans? We don’t care a whit anyway for the scopes and the archives and the myriad plans, for dependents and despondents who pay us no rent, for the annual declarations we mostly mimed. The paycheck is dwindling and mostly spent. The spirit has already been fined. We are twisting ourselves around hemispheres. What are we doing here?
Prompt: End with an open-ended question, provide lack of closure.