The world is quiet here, he decided, peering up at the ceiling. Books had lost their flavor; the syllables all began to slither into the mess of the mundane, swirling into an unidentifiable sludge of muddled languages. It was a shame, too, since he was beginning to pick up English…
The spirit stretched and began to idly paw through the stacks of literature, eyes narrowed. Occasionally, he opened one, grimacing in annoyance as the edges of the pages sliced into his hands. The fonts, he decided, were the most interesting aspect. Even in standard print, each book had a different flair to a particular set of letters or spaces. Perhaps it was the tone and style of the author.
He left the books and rolled onto his stomach, examining the stacks upon stacks of stapled files. The edges, he noted, were worn and torn, the paper yellowed in age. Cautiously, one was extracted from the masses.
One corner immediately found itself in the spirit's mouth as he gnawed at the staple, attempting to discern its age by taste alone. After a while, the tired strip of metal gave way to enamel and dentin, and was cast onto the floor. The pages separated slightly, free of bonds.
His brow furrowed as he stared at the font. It seemed to end every letter with a flippant flourish, curling the longest of the strokes into tails of ink. It made for slightly difficult reading, along with the language usage itself. He settled in more comfortably amongst the nest of papers, and slowly began to read to read the cursive text. A paradox, he decided.
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So… Here I am again, idly hacking out ridiculous stories on this keyboard once more, thoroughly annoyed with my style. If this is truly terrible, someone please notify me so I can surrender all attempts of salvation to the recycling bin.