You have stumbled into the semiexistent liminal space of words not yet written; of thoughts not yet considered.
There is nothing here beyond blank, empty walls, beige uninviting cubicle doors sporting tired, blu-tacked notices in regulation A4 80 GSM and Comic Sans print, ever so slightly uneven corporate yellow-green carpet, somewhat water stained in the far corner and a phone directory from 2001 next to a phone sitting on the floor. The dial tone from the handpiece merely serves to draw attention to the fact that no amount of pressing 0 or 9 or any other combination of numbers will ever result in a call being connected. Not even if you press #.
The only other sounds you can hear are the buzzing of fluorescent lights and the distant echoes of a photocopier, always just around the next corner.
