The air in the office grows stale. And with my heart pattering up in my chest I feel my legs twitch subconsciously towards the door. The calm practical letters on paper are no longer pacifying my burgeoning need. Like constant whispers itching to be heard, the wind blows in through the door teasing my senses with the scents of possibility. My hair swirls, pulling me, but I am latched to the table beneath the weight of this responsibility.