Implode (Taste)

He observed in reverence, his gaze its own solar system, as Helios made his final descent across the sky. Aloft in his fire chariot, Maxwell beheld as the Sun god ushered in the twilight, blushing embers diffused in his wake.

It took some while, though he was eventually led toward the president’s office. Once inside, the kind brunette invited the distinguishing architect to make himself comfortable within a contoured chair, at the prosperous publisher’s desk.

“Mulberry! Have a seat.”

He continued his conversation into the astute sable device, its receiver pressed against his ear.

Maxwell observed the room. There were large windows and more art deco prints along the walls. There was a competent green fern atop a side table and a non-specific shrub idling in a corner, next to his golf clubs and faux putting green. The desk was muddled, abandoned beneath books, contracts, and other occupational documents. Maxwell reclined in the chair, nonplused.

And wondered how the office would look, if he took the chisel.

Implode. Part XXXVIII - DK