Evidently sometimes I begin to write things that I promptly go on to forget all about.

Walter’s smile had been permanently downturned by the irrepressible forces of gravity. It was the pressure within the strange little cellar that he resided in from eight o’clock until six each day; there was no window and little light, and the air came from a tin sat upon his crusty old desk. Indeed, often it felt to Walter as though there was no door.

In fact, there was a door. At five feet and seven inches small, it was fractionally too much so for its most frequent entrant, and the curved indentations and flaking plaster at the top and center of the frame were a sad reminder of his early lessons in Avoidance of Contact with Solids. There were also one or two crevices in Walter’s forehead as a result of the same encounters.

Walter’s hair was spiky (when it wasn’t flattened by meetings with partitions in the building). It looked like he had taken great care both to create and to preserve the style of his golden-yellow locks each day. He hadn’t. Walter was not the sort to take great care with anything any more.

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