Tuesday, November 9, 2004


It's Ali vs. Clay
Both pummeling away
A champ always fights themself


More aloof than remote. More detached than aloof. More steely than detached. Yes, steely, he's steely. The man has a steely manner about him. New gunmetal-grey suit of a rather severe cut, no hint of pin-striping which might imply some sense of originality; cold steel-framed glasses hover in front of an expressionless face: emotionless.

He's rigid in his chair, an office chair of a startlingly austere style, sitting directly across from me, waiting, waiting, waiting for me to answer the first question. The atmosphere in the office is static - my silence is barely being tolerated.

The windowless office, incommodious space as it is, seems to exist for the sole purpose of exaggerating my opponent's sterile nature. Nothing adorns its white, white walls, but a single solitary clock, directly behind me, or, depending on how you choose to look at things, directly in front of him. Nothing sits upon the plain stainless steel desk but an ancient black rotary telephone. Nothing is in the wastepaper basket.

Soon Suspension, Anticipation, Expectation, and Impatience all crowd into the room with us, jostling, bumping, nudging, shouldering. It's cramped. A bead of sweat breaks out on my forehead - makes a run for my chin via the side of my face.

The man waits, silently he waits. I have forgotten the question.

We sit like this, arrested, until I wake up.

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