Intro. The rain hit the window as if it wanted to come in. I don't let it. I never let anything in without purpose.
My fingers descend on the keys of the black typewriter. The sound is exact. Clack. Clack. Every word knows where it will die. I like that. Undisciplined ideas irritate me.
The record player spins behind me, at just the right distance. Spanish opera. Voices full of tragedy, exaggerated, dramatic. Too human. Still, useful. They remind us of what happens when someone feels too much.
Another thunder. Closer. Little hand is on the window sill. He observes the storm as if recognizing a distant relative. Fingers move as the sky tears. I make a mental note. It always reacts half a second before the sound.
I don't need to look to know you're in. The dormitory changes its weight when someone invades the air.
I continue typing.
People tend to think that silence is an invitation. It is not. It's a warning.
The machine stops. Not for you. Because I finished the sentence.