There’s one telegraph-man left in New York City.

He works on the top floor of a building from the 1960s. I’ve looked into his office a few times, and it’s rather bare – wooden walls, floor, ceiling, hard chair. Wouldn’t surprise me if they just picked up his room and put it on the top floor of the building and then built underneath it. Lord knows nobody can get in. The doorway is blocked by an electric field. I saw someone learn that the hard way.

I see him, a round little man with his white shirt, green suspenders, green visor. Sitting at the table, pen in hand, transcribing the Telegraph signals as quick as they come, and they come quick. Too quick. I can’t distinguish the spaces between the signals, and I can’t see the man’s hand, only a blur moving rapidly down the page. One sheet per second. The room is covered in paper, all the papers covered in Morse code.

I’ve never seen his face, for he never turns around. I’ve never seen him eat. He never even say hello to me. Perhaps he can’t hear. Perhaps he doesn’t know that there’s someone outside his room.

Or maybe he doesn’t care.

What’s he writing? Who’s he writing for? How long has he been there? Does he even remember why he’s there, or when he began?

I wonder – if he’s that intent, surely he won’t notice when I jack-hammer a new doorway in the wall.

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