The pressing ceiling gets lower the longer I stare. I feel I can touch it now. I remember when the pressing ceiling was one-hundred feet high, unreachable and nonthreatening. Those days were free from shadows. Today the pressing ceiling is growing spikes. I see them, sharp and jagged, jut evilly overhead. They may impale my fragile skull and spill its precious fluids down to the unassuming floor. Then my life will spread out onto its patient face like a massive mosaic to be seen only by those who stare at the ground when they're alone.
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