AM: 10 miles. I'm going to be working at a client for the next couple weeks that reminds me of the captain from The Black Hole. Not in the sense that he turns his employees into cyborgs, but in that his enterprise lives on the brink of a spinning vortex of chaos and destruction. The problem for me is going to be squeezing in my lunch runs.
PM: Zero. I was hoping I could find a small window, but there was no escaping the Kafka-themed reality show we seem to be filming at work.
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