[You can feel the cool, stale air of the office go through your nose, down your throat and into the lungs. You can smell the dust, the iron and the smell of musky, wet dirt that can't help but seep through the walls despite the isolation. It almost smells like a graveyard. There's the everpresent whirring of technology – louder and deeper from some big machines, and almost silent from others. The ticking of the clock- you can almost hear the gears rubbing against eachother inside. Creator's quiet snoring, the rise and fall of her chest, adds just a little bit of life to this artificial environment. So does your heartbeat, a movement deep inside your chest, uneven and burrowed, but alive. The blood is rushing through your limbs, making each tremble ever so slightly. That one position you haven't moved from for the last half an hour? You can feel the prickle in your legs, a sensation that foreshadows them "falling asleep" soon enough if you do not move. Under your hands, the smooth of the desk unfolds. Cold, hard, but not fully stable. You never quite noticed how it swayed just a tiny bit every time you put pressure on it. There are stains from mugs, the texture of which makes the desk a little less smooth and even. You can pick at it with your fingers and the flakes get stuck under the nails. The chair you're sitting one, it's a lot softer than the other objects within your reach. The surface is covered in this small stitch which makes up the entirety of the fabric. You can feel it sinking a little bit under your weight. Your clothes are all touching your body simultaneously, different textures, weights and densities mixing in with eachother. The feeling of hair touching your scalp mixes in a little with the clothes, although you can almost feel the slight tingle of your head itching for no reason other than just. Life. And finally, your eyes. They dry, they move within your eye sockets, and you do have to blink in order to keep them from getting painful.]