Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-27102599-20151021182907

The feeling of isolation grew stronger as John came to terms with his state of affairs. John knew that he was once one of the most powerful men in the world, but now a husk of the man that once was lay ever silent in a chamber of self-pity and despair. The room lay dark, the only source of illumination seemed to be representative of his mental state, flickering on and off at random intervals, ever changing, ever dying. The room was blank, say for a lone mural on one side of the room, as the light flickered John could see small flashes of this failed attempt at graffiti, several buttons. They were parallel to each other, it also seemed that whoever drew them made more of an attempt as they should have done to make them all near identical. John gazed at the mural with a glazed look in his eye, they were his only source of entertainment, his only form of distraction, his only form of escape from the Hell he was experiencing. John knew that he was stuck in this scenario for the rest of his days. He knew that lodged in his psyche was a contract that bound himself to this place until he died, he knew that he would never escape, he knew tha-, with a sudden jolt, the lift stopped. John waited for the metallic doors to grind open and silently walked out.  