She was in Hell, she was sure of it. She used to spend every day typing away. The music of his life played out in the tune of keyboard clicks. Typing and reading, listening and thinking. She had shunned life, far happier in her stories. Far too often things were put on the backburn in favor of a new book. She rarely spoke, all of her thoughts and words put on paper. She never met a story she didn’t read and didn’t love. Never did she dream a story and not write it and not love it. She had died before her time, never having experienced life.
But now things were different. She was in Hell, this she knew, for she now lived in irony. Every day was spent as before, hunched over a keyboard at a desk. Her view was of Central Park, she could watch the children play, the lovers hold hands, birds alive on the winds. But this did not bother her, it did not make her happy, it did not make her sad. Now she felt nothing for she spent every day untyping all of her favorite stories letter by letter.