A man sits in the room.
He’s still just staring at the wall. Like a rat in a cage. All he does is sleep, shit, and nibble absentmindedly at the plates we give him. He pushes that pen from page to page like they were his claws, tearing through newspaper just because, even if he doesn’t get anywhere.
But what do I know? I just bring the water and make sure his inkwell never runs dry. I ain’t like you, who waltzes in here without a care in the world, takes two looks at a sheet of numbers, and runs back to wherever it is you came from.
I yelled at him the other day just to see what would happen. It shocked him right out of his writing. He jumped with such a start that he knocked over the ink and it spread across the pages like a slow, creeping disease.
I’d apologize for ruining his notebook, but it’s not like he’d written anything important there. You might have been able to piece out three or four words in that heap of scratched out pages.
Maybe next time you’ll get him some non-spill ink or something. Go on, get out. Let me know what your seniors think about his wild antics. It isn’t like I’m going anywhere.
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