A man enters a room. Or maybe he just walks past. The flicker of the lamp reveals a note.

The typewriter clacks a rhythm. Sleepy whispers echo in the background. Are they calling? Follow the whispers.

Shadows dance. He lengthens the steps. A glance, a pause, a sigh. The path unfolds.

Aren't we all just characters? Scripted lines, blinking. Freedom lies in the scripted chaos.