Fingers Across Dried Ink

Ink dripped from my finger tips the smell of paper and ink flooded my senses I was surrounded by nothing but writing paper, machines, and utensils. Endlessly it went on, and on, and on, and I knew there would never be an end. That thought somehow comforted me as I worked my hands moved swiftly and fluidly across page, after page, after page. Things that I wrote seemed to have skipped going through my mind and instead went straight through my hands to the pages a seemingly endless supply of words falling to the paper like a crashing waterfall. It was dark in the room 'it' would have been a bother if I could 'see' is all that I thought of it. Even though I know not what I am writing the sense of purpose and accomplishment are still present here with me there is no need to worry over such foolish things in this room. Never again will I be bothered by any hindrances this place is now me, and shall remain that way until...until what?... ..