Those around Michael stop caring.
You can see their eyelids droop as they close in:
at 10 metres, a mild malaise sags their features;
coversation drops off, coffee cups return to saucers
with a clink;
at 5, breathing is arrested to a faint sluicing
through the lips; pupils no longer respond
to light;
at 1, they flatline, slumped in their chairs,
while Michael continues to monologue
about rearwheel drive and the A534,
his mother's healthcentre visits,
Game Of Thrones, and on
and on
and ugh
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