#11

The man at my desk begins with a letter, reveling in something which may not end. Our typewriter sits in the corner, collecting dust. I sit in another, trembling. Grinning. He turns to me with a jagged expression. Bemusement fills the space between us, as I watch some veins coalescing between his slitted eyes.

The letter opener he grips is shivering, as he tears it open.

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