Chairs askew at empty desks, papers shuffled quickly into piles.
The Clock ticks when the office's quiet.
There's a hush that stares out long carpeted corridors; footsteps have stopped their hurried pacing.
Lights still on and burning brightly. Shining as a ghost ship sails on a gloomy night.
Only one or two stay.
You know, those ones.
They leave permanent coffee rings marked upon their desks. Blackberries nestled deep inside pinstriped pockets.
Only stepping out once the clock strikes nine, scuttling under the scolding street lights of London.
Forgetting that just above that sooty fog is a sparkling, moonlit sky.
