hollow

In the corner, there is a crumpled sweatshirt. Forgotten in a room that was never quite fully furnished, it has been left behind for good. The years have blanched the pictures within the open magazines lying about, and the petrified remains of the last sip of coffee rests in shattered shards at the bottom of a plain white mug that reads "l33t." It makes sense to someone. Someone that has not been here in quite a while.

Archaic links taunt me with their thumbnails. I pick up the dusty sweatshirt that I forgot I even had and hang it on the back of a folding chair that hasn't been used in quite some time. It's rusty and cold, and I realize the sweatshirt probably isn't mine after all. There are unpacked boxes of ideas and plans that have decayed and crumbled into corrupted files. A slight buzz fills the lifeless room. It is a room without purpose. I shut off the light as I walk back out just as quickly as I walked in. This place is abandoned.