The noose around the death box loosens as the magic hour draws near. 9 years with the same fabricated smell of gray poly walls with the sheen of grandpa's slacks. I fear leaving the safety of this place. Stockholm syndrome numbs me like heroine. I will raise a glass tomorrow with friends to toast, remember and forget all the good and stupid. All the beautiful and sick. All the famous and hated. All the friends and foes. All the lunch rides and lunch hockey with WW. All the trips to OOOBS. All the praise and awards. All the fuck ups and let downs. All the smiles and all the frowns. The cube cell was cleaned bare a month ago. All the notions and useless needs shelved, given or thrown. Tomorrow, with nothing to carry, I will for the last time, turn off the hum of security and walk away clean and go ride my bike.