When you know you are late to work
but let time hang loose from your body like an oversized suit regardless,
you are sure to open the floor of the earth and feel like a pervert.

Feet will try to scuttle you with haste across leaf painted pavements toward your occupation but, glancing at the bustle of similar people spread about, you now feel embarrassed.

So you force them to slow down, almost bringing yourself to a stubborn standstill. You can't stop entirely of course. The momentum of the merry-go-round would crush your organs against the stationary facade of your body in an instance, and there'd be no blood left at the back of your brain.