A man sits in the room.
He has taken up tapping; usually with a pen, against the paper on the desk, but every once in a while I’ll catch him rapping his fingers on the wall. It is driving me insane.
It’s like the slow rolling tick of a clock. Sometimes he loses himself and strikes the surface so hard he shocks himself out of the daze. You know how it is, when the world is lost when you adventure in your mind.
He seems to have found other motivation as well. The ink pours so much like a waterfall nowadays, you might be temped to think he was copying a book, rather than writing one. Unfortunately, every page seems to be nonsense.
Perhaps, the next time you run out to the market, you could get him some more of those pens? He definitely likes the blue ones you bought him the other day.
What’s that? You didn’t buy those? Well, I always thought you might be a regifter. Ever since you got me that shower mat—you know, the one with the red and green flowers on it? It’s not a big deal though—I’ve quite enjoyed them! Ah, but look at the time. Next week?
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