The Act of Writing

Drip, drip, drip. The rain steadily drops in though the hole in the roof, splashing into the bucket below the hole, each droplet strikingly loud in the utter silence of the room. The musty stench of moth eaten curtains is ever present, having eaten its way into the very fabric of the building decades ago. Dust lays, two inches thick, on every surface, tinting everything a dull, dirty grey. Cobwebs spiral out from every corner, the spiders who made them being long since dead, their corpses litter the carpet where they fell. The three occupants of the room however, do not seem to mind the dust, or the smell. They don't even appear to notice the steady dripping sound of the rain. Sat in a semi-circle, each on separate armchairs, they do not talk to each other, they do not look at each other. For all intents and purposes, they might as well each be in the room alone. Yet oddly, they mirror each other, arms dangling over the edges of their chairs, heads hung as if ashamed. They