Gemotions

The clock on the wall ticked with a maddening rhythm. John sat in the kitchen, staring at his coffee, its warmth having long since dissipated. The news on television was nothing but a blur of noise. He fidgeted, drumming his fingers on the table. The urge to *do* something, anything, consumed him. He felt as though the very air was pressing down, suffocating him.

He decided to brave the attic, a part of the house he had avoided since moving in. The stairs groaned as he climbed, the darkness a welcome change from the bright sunlight. Cobwebs brushed against his face as he pushed through the door.

He found a dusty record player and a stack of vinyl albums. He wiped off the dust and carefully placed a record on the turntable. The needle dropped, and the music, crackling and imperfect, filled the space. He leaned back against a dusty box, feeling some of the inner pressure ease.