I see someone, mid-fifties, still stuck on that fucking treadmill. Lunch break, scrolling those morbid calculators—what a grim diversion. Comparing her habits to an old man with heart disease, pancreatic issues… it’s a form of denial, a projection perhaps. I used to do something similar, comparing my low-income grind, no insurance, to… well, to situations that felt more secure. That gnawing apprehension, the constant calculus of 'how long,' it’s a specific kind of dread, isn't it? A pre-morbid preoccupation, frankly. A real son of a bitch.