The room was vast and small. It was built for many more people and many more desks, with a high ceiling and space that seemed to go on forever, but here was one desk, and one chair, and one light.
Into the night the solitary figure wrote, although it may may been high noon because the room had no windows. The only sound was the scratching of the pen on paper, and the slight echo of the slight scratching returned from the massive walls.
As suddenly as could be, the scratching stopped, and silence fell. The figure held the pen poised above the paper and stared at what had been written.
From the darkness, slowly walking, another figure, plainly clothed, passive faced.
“Is it done?” asked the new figure, not eagerly, not anxiously.
“It can never be done,” said the seated figure, not looking up, pen still poised.
“All things reach an end.”
“This has no ending.”
“Many ends happen without an ending.”
There came a long silence. In the silence one could almost hear the seated one shout a response, but nothing broke the silence, until the scratching resumed.
“This has no ending, nor will it end here.”
The words were stated calmly, but at the edge of both their consciousnesses could be sensed the same words shouted in rage.
“All right,” said the standing one, although it was not. The figure walked back into the darkness until, again, the only sound was the pen on paper.