It had gotten warmer since the beginning, heat created from the friction of pens to notebooks as ideas flowed from the mind to the wrist. Chairs pulled wonky and tables pulled in close, as if the creativity will rub off on one another. Fingers pull thick hair aside, clearing the way for eyes to read back over paragraphs and pages. The clock, displaying the total wrong time, daren't tick for fear of breaking the flow. Ideas run out, dripping like a leaky tap before returning to the previous stream. So much goes on yet nothing happens. It's silent. The world outside goes on, unable to see the ideas fly like sparks around the room. The air is thick, trembling with energy. The abandoned technology is all exiled into one corner, where it may distract no one. 'Twas just a room in a creaky old shack, an annexe with a name as welcoming as the place was pleasant 'G Block'. Only the Unfortunates are left here, with its creaky door and corridor with no lights and a phone with no dial tone, to give the illusion that one could call for help. G2, fallen posters on the ground and a door linking each room to the next, urging Unfortunates to watch one another. It wasn't all bad, the radiatorworked at least, caged to prevent theft, and the adjustment of the settings. Parabulas stain the board, from the Unfortunates who were here before, no one bothered wondering what had happened to them, after all, they were already gone.
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