There has been something ticking. The sound of being lost. She looked and looked around the book store. Ticking, ticking, a constant ticking. The sound did not give up as she continued to search. Her thoughts were focused, her aim was one; find the source of this interesting sound. A pile of books scrambled to the floor. The mess was great, though it was the reason she visited the place often. Her ear pressed to one of the books she once read, it had a noisy story though the ticking was not part of it. To the left of the room then the right, a curiosity that kept growing. A few books she stumbled upon were piling in her hands; an interesting story she thought. At the back of the store, she proceeded to a rather odd room. A writers desk sat against a large matte window with vibrant crimson seeping into the room. The walls had a vintage wallpaper that seemed to come alive with the window light. As bizarre as the window seemed, her mind was still set on the ticking. Tick, tick…tick, tick…tick, tick. She approached the desk; nothing but a fountain pen. The pen pressed to her ears, her eyes widened and lit with bliss. Nothing on her mind now, the sound gave her joy. A new thought rolled across her mind, she did not contemplate, she searched for paper in the drawers. She began to write. Tick, tick…tick, tick; the rhythm of her words.
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