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I'm not exactly looking forward to the internal move.
One of these days, when I'm about to enter my room, the one that I've grown familiar with, I realize it is empty. They've taken everything away. When I turn around, two large men in journalist trenchcoats and hats stand there, blocking my way out. Their cold stare tells me that I musn't resist. It is obvious that I should now that my day has now come.
As I walk away, I turn around, just to get a final glimpse of my room. What I see is four men are carrying a large, comfortable chair. In fact, there's a long queue of people carrying new furniture and technology to the room. It looks gaudy.
I leave the building, walking straightly into the parked car. The windows are toned, of course. When I step out again, I'm surrounded by a grey, run-down office block. I'm rushed into the K32 building. Then begins the expected corridor run. For almost half an hour, we go up, down, right, but never left. The walls start to look damp after 15 minutes of walking. I have to be alert, remembering the various miscoloured walls could be my only way out. When we stop, the air is filled with large, white, moist particles. My two guards wear masks. A single, black, pointy chair creates my workspace. They close the door and I sit down and wait. It's all as if this was bound to happen, I'm not afraid or disappointed. I start to use my hands and I work incessantly, for days. I feel nothing. On the seventh day, I hear a series of knocks on the wall:
..-. --- .-. - .... . .-.. --- ...- . --- ..-. --. --- -.. --..-- ... - --- .--. ... .. -. --. .. -. --.
written by Mattias