It can't decide what to say. It stutters a few words but they mean nothing. They are confused and mumbled, hurried. It's company is awkward. You feel you should make conversation, but it's like there's no one there to listen.

It feels like an empty box of matches. It is small and crumpled as if it's been at the bottom of a pile, which slowly grew larger as time went on. It is tired and worn away from use and the fibres of the cardboard are soft but dry. If you run your fingers along it, paper crumbles away on your fingers.

It smells fusty. As you inhale, dust prickles your nostrils. You try to get rid of the scent, but it never leaves. It lingers in the air.

It enters the room and clings to me. I can't shake it off. It can't decide what to say. It stutters a few words but they mean nothing. They are confused and mumbled, hurried. It's company is awkward. You feel you should make conversation, but it's like there's no one there to listen.