The Black Hole

Out of all the flats on the long corridor, there lay one that stands out; Winston's. His flat was a small black hole of nothing. As you walk in you are hit with many aromas. First, the pungent stink of smog hovering over a cigarette company. Then, the sickening stench of a sober tank at a police station. And lastly, you have the deathly smell of cabbage that goes along with the rest of the flats. Inside you find a television on which pictures of soldiers and dictators attempt to brain wash you with their nonsense. And in the corner there is a raggedy old desk that looks as if it had been Julius Ceasar's private desk. And inside you find a book, just a single book; similar in color to the Declaration Of Independence. At the far end of the room you see a chair that is similar in age to the desk. on the ceiling you see just a single light bulb with a moth circling and smacking violently into the bulb. With every impact of the flying nuisance you get a slight flicker from the century old bulb. In another corner you see a lumpy mattress. Stained with all kinds of sickening liquids, the smell coming off the rectangular block was as if you were walking through a sewer treatment plant. The feel if you laid down on it was similar to laying on a bed of sewing needles scattered aimlessly. You have but a single sheet barely big enough to cover an infant let along an adult.