Existential-wellness Stories

The fluorescent lights in the break room flicker in the peculiar way they do when the ballast is beginning to go, a kind of intermittent hum followed by a brief seizure in the lighting that makes it seem, at least to Randall Sturgess, as though time itself is stuttering. Randall sits at a faux woodgrain table, the Formica peeling at one corner where an old coffee ring had long since stained the surface a deep sepia, and s...