The subdued chatter in the office and the click-clack of typing had the effect of a mother's lullaby on Palermo as he struggled to do his work.  Every night this week, his precious dream-time had been whittled down more and more by all the mundane tasks that accumulated during the 12-13 hours he spent away at work and school.

He half-rose from his seat with the intent of defying convention and purchasing a cup of coffee from the vending machine.  A paper cup on the corner of his desk caught his eye and he settled back down with all the grace of a perplexed sack of potatoes.

Oh.  He had already purchased a cup of coffee.

He reached for it slowly, as if the cup was a mirage that might disappear when he came too close.  It remained real.  He was glad.  He wouldn't like it if he had spent 65 cents on an imaginary cup of coffee.

He peered into the cup and saw his own face staring back from the inky, black swirls.  The quality of the vended coffee reminded him disturbingly of machine urine.  He took a sip.  It was no longer steaming, but just warm enough to make his analogy even more accurate.  He grimaced.  His ink-self grimaced back.

He downed half of it.  Grains of instant-coffee-mix that had stubbornly defied the dissolving process staked a claim at the back of his throat and made themselves comfortable.  

Palermo almost wondered why he was taking such great pains to stay awake when all he really wanted in the world was to go to sleep.  Fortunately, he was able to suppress the thought before it surfaced and wholly depressed him.  

He lifted up the cup in a silent toast to the coming respite of the weekend.  He suppressed another thought about how busy he would actually be during the weekend by downing the rest of the bitter coffee.

If life is rounded by little sleep, then Palermo's life was going to be very well-rounded indeed.