Work.

To say there’s nothing new, says something. I’ve been here, and I’ve been here, and I’ve been here... It’s where I work and it happens again and again, not like my other haunts. My other regular holes. Those are part of my life, where as this one? I’ve been here. That’s all.
It’s still grey; the uninspiring room tries nothing out, and holds no new tricks. Two cubicles, two urinals, three sinks, one huge mirror, woodchip depth to the grey, the suspended ceiling squared, grey, even the colour in here is consumed by drab grey, eaten and exhausted orange doors, that were once bright, once had the energy to fight a corner in here.