The air is still. The house is still. She sits still. Very still. As though afraid any small action she makes will disrupt the unforgiving stillness of her surroundings. This stillness is rare. She is one who can barely keep still most of the time. For once, she is allowing the stillness to engulf her – prising her away from the hurried bustle of the buzzing world outside her window. She indulges in this stillness; it is one that was hard to come by.

The air is warm. She can feel beads of perspiration beginning to form on her forehead and at the nape of her neck. The rising humidity is getting to her, taunting her. She feels grimy. The CPU hums beside her. She stares blankly at the luminant screen before her eyes. Blinking rapidly, she realises, she is tired. Tiredness... it is something she is so used to, it seems negligible. She reaches for the cup of coffee beside her and takes a long sip. The fragrance of her espresso teases her olfactory glands, as the caffeine shoots through her system. She feels empowered.

The air is musty. There is something old about the house. Not its face value; it is barely two years old since it was rightly hers. She cannot place a finger on what, but it just seems decrepit. The winds of preoccupation in her work has allowed a thick coat of dust be blown to her, through the windows, into her house; to enshroud the happiness in her soul, in her heart. She feels burdened, just like her house. She looks around. It had been weeks since she last cleaned the bookshelves of the dirt which rested disgustingly on her prized literature works of Dickens and Shakespeare, all finely-pressed and neatly bounded within hard fabric covers.

The air is thin. She suffocates. She struggles to take in deep breaths, but with great difficulty. The deadlines and assignments she knows she has to fulfil and complete presses heavily on her mind. They seemingly slice her windpipe, reaping her of the ability of breathe. Work rests laboriously on her shoulders. She faces it stoically, though the strain is almost unbearable. She looks at the screen once again. The chunks of text swims around the page, as though unwilling to stay on, and her vision blurs. She looks at the keyboard. One letter, one box. It is too uniform. She detests uniformity.

Mindlessly, her fingers hit, ENTER. The page blanks out. Black. All she sees is black.

The air... The air is still, warm, musty and thin. She fights to breathe, she cannot.

The air is still. The house is still. She sits still. Very still. As though afraid any small action she makes will disrupt the unforgiving stillness of her surroundings. This stillness is rare. She is one who can barely keep still most of the time. For once, she is allowing the stillness to engulf her – prising her away from the hurried bustle of the buzzing world outside her window. She indulges in this stillness; it is one that was hard to come by.

The air is warm. She can feel beads of perspiration beginning to form on her forehead and at the nape of her neck. The rising humidity is getting to her, taunting her. She feels grimy. The CPU hums beside her. She stares blankly at the luminant screen before her eyes. Blinking rapidly, she realises, she is tired. Tiredness... it is something she is so used to, it seems negligible. She reaches for the cup of coffee beside her and takes a long sip. The fragrance of her espresso teases her olfactory glands, as the caffeine shoots through her system. She feels empowered.

The air is musty. There is something old about the house. Not its face value; it is barely two years old since it was rightly hers. She cannot place a finger on what, but it just seems decrepit. The winds of preoccupation in her work has allowed a thick coat of dust be blown to her, through the windows, into her house; to enshroud the happiness in her soul, in her heart. She feels burdened, just like her house. She looks around. It had been weeks since she last cleaned the bookshelves of the dirt which rested disgustingly on her prized literature works of Dickens and Shakespeare, all finely-pressed and neatly bounded within hard fabric covers.

The air is thin. She suffocates. She struggles to take in deep breaths, but with great difficulty. The deadlines and assignments she knows she has to fulfil and complete presses heavily on her mind. They seemingly slice her windpipe, reaping her of the ability of breathe. Work rests laboriously on her shoulders. She faces it stoically, though the strain is almost unbearable. She looks at the screen once again. The chunks of text swims around the page, as though unwilling to stay on, and her vision blurs. She looks at the keyboard. One letter, one box. It is too uniform. She detests uniformity.

Mindlessly, her fingers hit, ENTER. The page blanks out. Black. All she sees is black.

The air... The air is still, warm, musty and thin. She fights to breathe, she cannot.