I can hear the vents hymn slip into my ears and It's actually quite comforting. White noise keeps me at a pace, almost like a timer for every pulse I write a word. I don’t see anyone, I don't want to. It’s quiet here and my thoughts are stirring. The darkness surrounds me except for the slight light of my lamp. The texture of the paper is unnoticeable, however as crisp as a chip. When I stop to think I can taste the plastic of the pen in my mouth. What to write? What to write? It's not too busy, it’s not too silent to where I get scared but it’s only loud enough for me to hear. My words flow across a paper as I scratch out and rewrite everything. My main goal is to sound like a writer, because maybe I’m actually not one. It takes me a while to focus even when I am alone. He said “the hardest thing for a writer to do is to stop interrupting the flow.” I thought that this would be easy yet I struggle with every line. I don’t smell anything in particular perhaps just my breathe, every word I write or type I say out loud to myself. That is probably the reason why I like to be alone. I get disturbed when wandering eyes touch my papers, I wonder if they understand, or maybe i’m just embarrassed by my thoughts.