I feel this current it's so strong
WHO: deus_ex_100 and swwag
WHERE: Gracie Mansion
WHEN: Last tonight
WARNINGS: Trolls. Also violence.
SUMMARY: It's a surprise!
FORMAT: Para!!
--ZERO HOURS, FIVE MINUTES, TWENTY FIVE SECONDS; ZERO HOURS, FIVE MINUTES, TWENTY SIX SECONDS--
--VOLUME CURRENTLY AT THREE. CLOSED CAPTIONING ON. PICTURE IN PICTURE--
It was a familiar exercise in laziness when Mitchell changed the channel with his voice, ordering the television to switch from one 24/7 news channel to the next. The remote was even right next to him, but at least this time he was actually working, a pencil scratching across the paper whenever a note, or idea, or new policy direction crossed his mind. Or he'd make a small doodle on the top. Most of these would probably get burned, or shredded at least. It was the one cathartic, quiet practice he could indulge in. Pencils didn't talk, paper didn't talk. People who got close enough to Mitchell would comment on it. How a guy who was purportedly so forward thinking, and good with technology would use something so archaic... Well, they didn't have the rush of constant noise. Cutting it down, even by two items was a relief.
The TV volume was high enough that it just barely exceeded the noise of everything else he could here. It was like being in a crowded room, with one person talking louder than everyone else. He'd been forced to perfect selective listening. Scritch scritch went the pencil, the buzz of machines whispering consistently.
Just another night.
WHERE: Gracie Mansion
WHEN: Last tonight
WARNINGS: Trolls. Also violence.
SUMMARY: It's a surprise!
FORMAT: Para!!
--ZERO HOURS, FIVE MINUTES, TWENTY FIVE SECONDS; ZERO HOURS, FIVE MINUTES, TWENTY SIX SECONDS--
--VOLUME CURRENTLY AT THREE. CLOSED CAPTIONING ON. PICTURE IN PICTURE--
It was a familiar exercise in laziness when Mitchell changed the channel with his voice, ordering the television to switch from one 24/7 news channel to the next. The remote was even right next to him, but at least this time he was actually working, a pencil scratching across the paper whenever a note, or idea, or new policy direction crossed his mind. Or he'd make a small doodle on the top. Most of these would probably get burned, or shredded at least. It was the one cathartic, quiet practice he could indulge in. Pencils didn't talk, paper didn't talk. People who got close enough to Mitchell would comment on it. How a guy who was purportedly so forward thinking, and good with technology would use something so archaic... Well, they didn't have the rush of constant noise. Cutting it down, even by two items was a relief.
The TV volume was high enough that it just barely exceeded the noise of everything else he could here. It was like being in a crowded room, with one person talking louder than everyone else. He'd been forced to perfect selective listening. Scritch scritch went the pencil, the buzz of machines whispering consistently.
Just another night.