*

there is dust, everywhere. caking the keys of typewriter, in between the spokes of a wooden chair in the corner, there is dust on dust. the light in the room comes from two identical and aligned windows about one foot from the floor. the floor itself looks so old, you know it will either creak or give you a splinter with each step you take. the walls are bare apart from the bubbles of water damaged wallpaper that forms near each seam of said paper. near a few corners and the light switch you can see the paper is starting to finally peel back. the outlet that the typewriter is plugged into has been ripped out of the wall, being held in place by the cabling behind.

the man sitting in front of the typewriter sits in a lazy chair that isn't nearly as dilapidated as the room. it's upholstery has filtered most of the dust out of the air and expels it back out into it each time the typist moves even slightly, merely breathes.

the text on the paper, long since dried read: