The elevator alone was worth the price of admission. That backlit glow of tempered bone-glass, so white as to be a privilege just to visage. No buttons of which to speak, I could have reached out to attempt to hold – the invisible hand, of my heavenly father, but I demured. The proud, prodigal son of God does not need, when he visits the central offices, to show off his connection to the celestial being. I wanted to make a good impression, I was there to be seen, but also to be me.
Beneath my desert cloak my sweaty palm concealed the encrypted U.S.B.
When I had a moment to shy from the attentive glare of my divine host, – a brief lapse of security, when my trick was to pretend so long I was the dutiful, the attentive… I broke. From the tour, an absconder, I made a frantic and fleet-footed search for… THE ROOM.
Nevermind the warnings on the door, the hints of the danger, of desires, dreams fulfilled. I was the stalker and I was a mere tour guide to the technology I secreted in.
Once the mainframe tasted my deft hand, and the transfer, was made good; I looked on my work, and in a frenzy. The rapture came.
There goes your escape routes.
The Haunted Typewriter 