Freewrite. Ish.

He sank sullenly back into his desk, contently vexed by an oft misapplied fallacy.
Is this what was to be of every moment, every day?
Sitting in a block of nothing, perturbed by the painful utterances of a forgotten future?
His eyes and reason were fixed upon the door, yet his heart nailed him to his seat.
He watched the clock before him tick with undulating grievances; grievances matching his own.
And before he could count another minute of opportunity, the wind snatched up what freedom he was offered.
This sentimental struggle is civil war at its finest.