If the shit people did in this building was secreted onto the walls like catarrh, he said, all the little schemes manifest as layers of gunk, all the conversation condensed and built up like mucus, the place would look like a candied cuckoo clock, a monument to the fatty acids who preside over affairs. Not everyone would secrete though right? She said. No, some emit heat, but most do and more often than not the ones who look like they would be worst, are, he replied. So what will happen in the end then, after it gets too much? She asked.....but he was already gone, leaving a trail of phlegm yellow gunge up the corridor....
A length of spit dangled from his mouth, as it lengthened he drew it back to his lips before it could drop on the eager tourists below. As he drew it, like a length of spaghetti, it twisted and buckled into what looked like a word, but it was gone before it could be read. He turned from the balcony, walked back into his office and looked through the medieval stone carved window, its lines framing and reframing the view out onto the river and sighed, like a bored child chewing gum.