‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎∅₊• 𝖘.

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𝐂𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐒 FROM CHAPPED LIPS, AND GRAY EYES WATCH IT SLOWLY SWIRL ABOVE.    THE CAMERA,  COLD AND HEAVY,  THAT RESTS ON HIS CHEST SEEMS LIKE A WEIGHT.    BUT NOTHING COMPARED TO THE MASK, THE MASK THAT FEELS LIKE ITS BURNING A HOLE THROUGH THE MAHOGANY WOOD DRAWER IT RESIDES IN.

SIGHING,  THE MAN SITS HIMSELF RIGHT FROM  THE LEANED BACK POSITION HE HAD HELD IN THE CHAIR.    PULLING HIMSELF CLOSER TO THE DESK,  HE STARES DEJECTEDLY AT THE TYPEWRITER IN FRONT.    A HAND  (BRUISED,  CALLOUSED,  PALE)  GOES FORWARD,  ITS SPINDLY FINGERS RESTING ON THE KEYS.    THE FAMILIAR SOUNDS OUTSIDE:  SIRENS,  YELLING,  HORNS,  BEEPING.    INSIDE:  RUSTLING PAPERS,  CLICKING TYPEWRITER KEYS,  COUGHING,  AND MORE YELLING.    THE SOUND OF HIS CHAIR BEING PUSHED BACK LETS OUT AN EAR SPLITTING SCREECH,  BUT THE MAN WHO OCCUPIED IT IS OUT THE DOOR BEFORE HIS STARTLED CO-WORKERS CAN REPRIMAND HIM.

𝐓͟͟𝐇͟͟𝐄͟͟ 𝐘͟͟𝐄͟͟𝐀͟͟𝐑͟͟ 𝐈͟͟𝐒͟͟ 𝐍͟͟𝐈͟͟𝐍͟͟𝐄͟͟𝐓͟͟𝐄͟͟𝐄͟͟𝐍͟͟-𝐓͟͟𝐇͟͟𝐈͟͟𝐑͟͟𝐓͟͟𝐘͟͟ 𝐅͟͟𝐎͟͟𝐔͟͟𝐑͟͟
 &.                              𝐇͟͟𝐄͟͟ 𝐈͟͟𝐒͟͟ 𝐒͟͟𝐏͟͟𝐈͟͟𝐃͟͟𝐄͟͟𝐑͟͟-𝐌͟͟𝐀͟͟𝐍͟͟ 𝐍͟͟𝐎͟͟𝐈͟͟𝐑͟͟.
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