The light clicks on and casts a dim yellow curtain over the room. It seems so long that Ive been here, yet I look around I see no familiar shapes in the stacks of yellowing paper that look much older by this light covering almost every surface. The rooms dusty haze seems to rise up out of nowhere as if appearing just to be seen. I reach over from the beaten sofa where I sit, the shadow of my arms casts itself over the worn patterned upholstery that has that musty smell of age in it, and I take the top paper off of the least yellowed stack. Even the newest of these seems old and almost brittle under my grip as I tilt it toward the light to reveal its scribbled text. The writing looks familiar as if written by my own hand, the title of the page reads Day Two Thousand, Six hundred and Forty-two. My eyes slowly move down the text, it appears to be a diary of sorts, and my mouth moves with the words as they pass through my mind.
The light clicks on and casts a dim yellow curtain over the room. It seems so long that Ive been here, yet I look around I see no familiar shapes in the stacks of yellowing paper that look much older by this light covering almost every surface. The rooms dusty haze seems to rise up out of nowhere as if appearing just to be seen. I reach over from the beaten sofa where I sit, the shadow of my arms casts itself over the worn patterned upholstery that has that musty smell of age in it, and I take the top paper off of the least yellowed stack. Even the newest of these seems old and almost brittle under my grip as I tilt it toward the light to reveal its scribbled text. The writing looks familiar as if written by my own hand, the title of the page reads Day Two Thousand, Six hundred and Forty-one. My eyes slowly move down the text, it appears to be a diary of sorts, and my mouth moves with the words as they pass through my mind.
The light clicks on and casts a dim yellow curtain over the room. It seems so long that Ive been here, yet I look around I see no familiar shapes in the stacks of yellowing paper that look much older by this light covering almost every surface. The rooms dusty haze seems to rise up out of nowhere as if appearing just to be seen. I reach over from the beaten sofa where I sit, the shadow of my arms casts itself over the worn patterned upholstery that has that musty smell of age in it, and I take the top paper off of the least yellowed stack. Even the newest of these seems old and almost brittle under my grip as I tilt it toward the light to reveal its scribbled text. The writing looks familiar as if written by my own hand, the title of the page reads Day Two Thousand, Six hundred and Forty-one. My eyes slowly move down the text, it appears to be a diary of sorts, and my mouth moves with the words as they pass through my mind.