crayon
Every day was harder than the last. It was impossible to write obituaries every single day and not want to kill yourself and hate your job. All I ever wanted was to be a journalist. And now I am. But it sucks. My dreams of being a reporter were crushed.
If anything the walls were a disgrace. Tumbling down about the room, they littered the floor with bits of cracked stone and disintegrated brick. As I moved through the decrepit shelter I began to shudder at the thought of spending the night in this dank hole of a place. But what choice did I have?