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Description
He gives you pen and paper, maybe a pencil if you piss him off.  You see his face, but it is blank. You hear his voice, but it is inaudible.  He is taller then you, by multiple inches, though his body is slim.  He is protected by a mocha colored suede coat, covering his black pants and shirt.  You would not question him if passed on the street, if you did not see his slate eyes.
The room is spacious, yet constricting.  The walls a bare gray, the ceiling white tiled, like an office.  Small, plain lamps hang around you.  This is not a terror filled place, but rather, office like.  Your eyes only wander the perimeter for a moment, before his voice  breaks your reverie.
“Write” he commands, pointing to the blank sheet in front of you.
“What?” you reply, holding your hands up in confusion.  His answer is silent, only a hard glare into your searching eyes.
“Write.” He commands once more, not cruelly, but with a daunting authority, sending shivers up your spine.  Panicking, afraid of those dead eyes, you begin to jot down the first thing you can think of.
‘One fish two fish red fish blue fish.’ Your brain has forgotten punctuation, commas or semicolons; you’re actually quite surprised you found those words.  Racking your mind manically, you try your best to remember how you got here in the first place.  Sitting in your car, stuck in rush hour traffic, the last thing you remember.  A normal day, going home from work, a drive you have done a million times.  Straining to find an answer, you forget your task, letting the pen fall from your fingers.
“Write!” your master commands once more, this time raising his voice.  Fearfully, you stare up at him,
“I don’t know what to write..” you confess, averting your eyes from his gaze.  With a evident annoyance, your master bends down to your ear, his sticky breath hot on the nape of your neck,
“Write for them.” He whispers, a wise old sage.
You understand.

Description
He gives you pen and paper, maybe a pencil if you piss him off.  You see his face, but it is blank. You hear his voice, but it is inaudible.  He is taller then you, by multiple inches, though his body is slim.  He is protected by a mocha colored suede coat, covering his black pants and shirt.  You would not question him if passed on the street, if you did not see his slate eyes.
The room is spacious, yet constricting.  The walls a bare gray, the ceiling white tiled, like an office.  Small, plain lamps hang around you.  This is not a terror filled place, but rather, office like.  Your eyes only wander the perimeter for a moment, before his voice  breaks your reverie.
“Write” he commands, pointing to the blank sheet in front of you.
“What?” you reply, holding your hands up in confusion.  His answer is silent, only a hard glare into your searching eyes.
“Write.” He commands once more, not cruelly, but with a daunting authority, sending shivers up your spine.  Panicking, afraid of those dead eyes, you begin to jot down the first thing you can think of.
‘One fish two fish red fish blue fish.’ Your brain has forgotten punctuation, commas or semicolons; you’re actually quite surprised you found those words.  Racking your mind manically, you try your best to remember how you got here in the first place.  Sitting in your car, stuck in rush hour traffic, the last thing you remember.  A normal day, going home from work, a drive you have done a million times.  Straining to find an answer, you forget your task, letting the pen fall from your fingers.
“Write!” your master commands once more, this time raising his voice.  Fearfully, you stare up at him,
“I don’t know what to write..” you confess, averting your eyes from his gaze.  With a evident annoyance, your master bends down to your ear, his sticky breath hot on the nape of your neck,
“Write for them.” He whispers, a wise old sage.
You understand.