A Return from The Kettle.

Wearing nought but his lower pyjamas, the male walked into the dark room. A single corner of it was lit up with a baleful blue-white light that struck the underside of the shelves above the bed. This light granted an underlight to the bust on the topmost shelf,  giving her a melancholic and ghostly appearance that was juxtaposed with the haunting shadow that was smeared on the ceiling above.

The light came from the screen that sat on the bed. The window, as it could facetiously be called, was open on an empty document page. There was nothing on it.

He succumbed to the cold light and lay the warmth of the laptop on his lap, folding his legs to protect against the lower temperatures of the room and completely ignoring the blankets that he sat upon. The light now exposed the figure to the entire room for all to see – all, in this case, being nobody. The room was empty of all other life, and the rest of the building lay sleeping in the rooms beyond.

A small black, vertical line sat blinking on the empty page that the man thumbed his eye at. It was a tribute to his creativity at the moment, since nothing new had slipped from his fingers for days now.

He stared at it, himself now unblinking and raised his fingers to the keyboard before him. He began to type something that would eventually write itself:

Wearing nought but his lower pyjamas, Kier walked into the dark room.

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