On waking in a room withonly a typewriter:
Okay. Anyway. I don’t believe I’ve ever used a typewriter before, so apologies for any odd
Indentations. And misspellings. They use ink, so I don’t believe there’s any real way to erase? I do wonder how people back then did it. Did they just never make mistakes? Mabe the ones before computers had some way to erase. They must have. There are a couple buttons that I have guesses as to what they do, but I’m not exactly sure. “MAR REL?” What? Reload? Maybe it’s so I can reload the ink? I do hope I don’t run out of ink any time soon. I doubt it’ll give me any indication on when I’m running low, other than, maybe the same as when a pen is running low? Maybe I should write with brevity so as to conserve?
I am writing with quite… A sort of. Stream of Consciousness? I lost my train of thought. The “PWR BCK” button is self explanatory enough, but It is strange that the power button is the same as the back button? How does that exactly work? I’m worried that if I press it, it won’t turn on again. There’s also a strange lever mechanism? I’m not sure how to describe it.
Okay. Maybe instead of talking about the typewriter, I should write about my circumstances? Or about myself, for whoever finds this after me? Though I’m not sure how exactly somebody would find this. I’m not exactly sure how I got here.I was just. Doing something. Not exactly sure what, now that I think about it, and now I’m here.
To clarify, “Here” is kind of difficult to clarify. Whichis why I havent’ really clarified. I find myself in a blank abyssal plane, there’s no connection between any sort of wall or flooring, so it’s quite difficult to find my way around. I haven’t exactly come across any walls, but I don’t want to be walking and accidentally slam my head into the wall without realizing. I don’t seem to cast much of a shadow, everything seems rather illuminated. It reminds me of stories I used to be told, about snow blindness, or of people going mad after sensory deprivation.
Anyway, an introduction! To myself. That would be helpful. By myself, I mean, An introduction of myself, for the sake of you readers! My name is
It’s been a while, dear readers. How have you been? I’ve been looking for a way to escape. I’ve been quite successful in my efforts. There is no horizon. There is no separation of the floor to the wall. There is no way to tell what time it is. I don’t, frankly, know how long it’s been since I last was writing to you. To separate things for my mind, I started taking off all of my clothes and throwing them all over the place! First, my shoes, then my socks, then trousers, vest, and so on. Now I’m sitting here in my glasses, boxers, and my undershirt.
here are certain things we all know about ourselves, my friend, just by glancing down at ourselves. I am a male, I know that for certain. From monologuing out loud as I type this, I know that I must be from the UK. Likely London? How awful, I'm not certain! How can I not know? At least I have the humility to admit that, reader. I know that I am not older than 25, or that I have, at least, aged very gracefully. I’m likely middle to upper class, judging by my attire.
I think I’m going to start numbering my entries in some way. I haven’t quite decided how, yet. Maybe just ordering them in the times I sleep? Hopefully, by the time I wake up, I won’t still be here. I don’t know how I’ll sleep with it being so bright here, anyway. There’s no reliable way to tell time, so I’ll rely on my God Given Circadian Rhythm!
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Is this a good way to separate days? Adash? Apologies for my previous scattered thoughts. I hope you understand my circumstances. It’s a bit difficult to order your journal entries in a coherent way when you cant xactly just reorder things like you would on a computer. That and the added stress of my situation. I’ve realized an added stressor, as well, dear friend. Food! I can’t believe I forgot! And water! I cannot bear the thought of thirsting to death, it sounds like such an awful fate. I wonder how long I’ve been here, that I haven’t even thought about it.
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Worries over ink usage consume my waking thoughts. Brevity is wit of man.
Anyway. No progress. Hope wanes.
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Exploration continues. You, old friend, are coming with me. Never ends. No horizon. Pocket Dimension? I search my mind for stories I have read. Fiction, of course. I am not as well read as I thought I was. I hope I am remembered.
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I talk out loud. It would have been better to have been given a a tape recorder than a typewriter. My mother was write, I would have never been an author.
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I draw, now. Brilliant red paints the visage of this cruel Snow White landscape I inhabit. Gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair. Nothingbeside remains. Etc etc.
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Nobody will remember me.