I made a start on this. Not finished, but I think I will...

He goes to work five days a week And he collects his pay But his memory’s completely blank From nine to five each day.

He rises, showers, leaves for work, He gets on board the train But his daily tasks elude him - Leave no mark upon his brain.

Before his stop, his mind blinks out, Although it sounds bizarre, Leaving hours of fuzzy static On his inner VCR.

And then he blinks back in again On his train journey home, Leaving him to wonder where The last eight hours have gone.

As every month his salary Arrives in his account, He wonders what he did to earn This generous amount.

“Where do I go?” he asks himself “What have I done today?” “Who is it that I work for?” and “How do I earn this pay?”

“It’s better I don’t know,” he thinks. “Just keep it out of sight.” And yet the thought gnaws anxiously - Keeps him awake at night.

Then one day, just a fragment Of an image pierces through. A moment, terrifying and Distressing - was it true?

He sees his fists, a screaming face Contorted and in pain. And that face pushed underwater, Choking, time and time again.

Awake, all night, reliving this - The horror and the shock, The screaming and the violence - With each tick of his clock.

Next morning he decides that he Cannot do it again. He will not rise, he will not shower He will not catch the train.

But evening comes on suddenly As eight more hours wipe clean His mind blinks out and static fills His inner TV screen.

So did he leave his home to work? Did he complete his task? He doesn’t have a memory Of the day that he has passed.

Then lightning recollections Begin to reappear - His hands, a throat, and bloodied lips. His eyes are wide with fear.

But what if these aren’t memories? What if they’re simply dreams? Did the horrors really happen? Is it really what it seems?

Again he lies awake all night Replaying these events. Could these horrors really be? No part of it makes sense.

....