The storeroom is empty - I mean, I am the only one in there with the books and the files and dust-covered boxes. There really is not much in here but the four walls - and the books and the files and the dust-covered boxes.
I wonder if books could talk?
I consider the possibility of life within this room. I'm the only one breathing in here. With every exhalation, more hot cabon dioxide seems to burden the atmosphere. That's how small it is in here.
I can hear the mysterious tinkling of mugs.
Coffee-stained mugs sit behind the small stack of books. I know they are there even if I can't see them. I know this because I put them there, to hide them from the boss who always grumbles at the sight of dirty mugs.
Omnipotence. I know everything. I am the only one with a mind in here.
I love this feeling of knowing everything. I am a level of intelect above these books and I am more well-versed about the present than these files and boxes. I snicker at the thought of this power - I am in control.
Suddenly, the door slams open
"What are you doing in here?"
And reality is calling...
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