As the sun continued to rise, he started his work. Reading through and filing all the papers; laundry lists, government documents, administrative documents. Anything that could or needed to be written on paper was left sitting on the tiny desk.
He was not halfway down the pile when a noise outside broke his concentration. He looked up at the window, and upon seeing nothing, became transfixed in an empty daze. Suddenly, he remembered the papers he had laid under the window. He jumped up and in less than three steps he was crouched in front of them. He traced his fingers over the damp surface of the pulpy paper. They were written by hand, rather than by typewriter. They were scraps of paper, messily written, that were different from the rest of the papers in the room. Overrun with curiosity, he snatched them up. He skimmed over them lightly. The papers didn’t match and were all of different sizes. On some pages the ink had run, and they had been badly damaged from the dampness. They had a repulsive smell; of dirt and human filth. He ran his fingers over the dirty papers again, then he flicked his eyes to the stacks of paper waiting for him around the room. He reasoned that it couldn’t hurt taking a break. After all, he had made steady progress over the past weeks, and it did not look like his duties would alleviate in any near future. For no other reason than personal interest, he sat the papers in his lap and began reading.