The message
Dim light filtered through closed blinds, holding back the afternoon light; holding back reality. Dust danced through the few rays of golden light that partially lit the bare sheet of paper, which will soon resemble a glorious history. Adjacent to the paper lay a unique chemistry book which had consumed the reader for months. In the centre of the room an old hotel bed sat, its springs rusted and its sheets stained.
The room had a sense of doom to it which refused to fade. The light that hung from the ceiling had long been broken, jagged edges hung down over the bed ominously. Directly beneath a man sat. He had a mystified look on his face. His hairline had begun to recede, and grey hairs were already found among the brown. His face was overwhelmed with creases near his eyes and forehead. Deep wrinkles ran from his nose down his cheeks, all the signs of ageing were painfully clear. His eyes held no joy or happiness. They only held one emotion, determination. Pure, concentrated determination. He wore an old, grey, well-used jumper and a cheap pair of jeans stained and torn from his months of reckless and misunderstood work. Next to him sat a brown woven sack containing a brown substance, a block of a white substance, an assembly of tangled wires and finally his work of art; his final product after months of craftsmanship.
