My shoes are scattered in my truck.
I don’t plan for that.
My days catch-up to me.
I don’t want to be caught.
My boss is miserable.
I call him “my boss”, because he belongs to me, like a slave, while I am the master.
My shoes carry me where I need to go—golfing, running, and working, and not necessarily in that order.
I am different in different places.
My coworkers are the same. Their shoes are scuffed.
I change clothes, shoes, personalities, constantly.
My best self is hidden, completely.
I need to hide.
My magic is the last light from the sun—it glows brightly, beneath the horizon.