The Dribble of Truth.

Having started the day thirteen hours earlier, and returning from an exhausting holiday, he was nearing the home stretch. At dawn, his desk's usual spotless incarnation had rapidly devolved into a disturbingly convincing thesis against the horrors of leaving ones cubicle for longer than a piss break. Like a jungle man hacking left and right with a machete through some amazonian rain forest, he had greeted his Everest of paperwork with such vigor, such unrelenting cheerful pride, that his one week holiday was nearly erased. His inbox no longer sputtered, pregnant with the 187 missed emails, and had only just quieted itself after it's hastily expectorated warning of overload from breached capacity. The last task, a profit and loss review had been postponed by a divine reprieve, and as he gathered his bag and files for further work at home, he had little knowledge that concurrent to his waking this morning, a light-switch thrown in Cincinnati had generated an arrow of causality that was at this very moment, resulting in several inches of water meandering over the lip of the men's room sink, and depositing their mass in a miniature tsunami of water creeping through the lobby, unnoticed by those nearest the source of the overflow, and tragically, imminently requiring his immediate attention.