It’s anything but quiet.
A den roaring with eclectic typewriters, scribes, and readers.
Their hairs electrified to the wicks of their frames.
Of mad strewn wire, shattered glass, and melted plastic.
Their arms rocking in synchrony to the mechanical beat of the glowing hearth.
The white bulbous steam exhaled rebelliously out of its frayed metal cage, and then disappeared into wisps of gray.
Black ink splattered the creaky wooden floors.
The masked readers inhaled pages of dust.
Oiled pages rolled across the table.
The metal typewriters wheezed.
The walls quaked like jelly.
A scribe fell asleep.
The corner coughed.
A rat fell from the sky.
A wild manly shriek.
Spilled green tea.
Copyright 2016 Moosmosis
Postscript: an exclusive look into a fried (frying?) student’s brain