The bell rung for the eleventh time that day of no day, where time was measured only by little spaces, the little interstices between from when the bell rung and the bell rung again to signal the beginnings and the ends of ends and beginnings. Typewriters roared to life in that little room from which my life, and the lives of others revolved. But I knew, adjacent to that room, and beside that one, and parallel to what may be an infinite number of rooms, was a universe of infinitely more rooms full of people like me, writing their stories.
It was in my booth, that I met a man, and sitting together side by side, spinning our tales that we managed a very long engagement (a series of long exchanges). A conversation that is, and if I recall it in that blank space in my head correctly, it went something like this:
"Hello," said suddenly the man beside me, jabbing away at his typewriter. So I scanned him from the corners of my eyes. He had a cigarette in his mouth. It was a smoking booth, but I didn't smoke. No, I just liked the smell of it. He smelled of Menthol. So I breathed him up; I breathed him into me.
"Hello to you too."
"What's your name?"
"I practice a lot of names. You can call me Roger, though."
"Okay, but I don't think I'll mention your name once in this story."
"Of course. This story is between you and me. I disclosed my name out of politeness--for the audience. Just like you did."
"So where do we begin?"
"Anywhere you want."
"Lets start from the middle."
"That seems logical."