Feeling bored, I decide to take up casual conversation with the only other person in the room—Donn—before realizing it is in fact my only hope of ever knowing what compelled the use of that second n. Donn is sitting across from me; his portly body is planted firmly in the crevice between beige suede couch cushions. Donning a waffled long shirt, spotted off-white wherever earth has met sweat, wear-worn tartan flannel, and dusty jeans, Donn is a paradox unto himself, simultaneously appearing idle and not idle. Five minutes earlier, Donn trekked up the three flights of stairs, below which exists a grayscale city street of asphalt and smog, above which resides a dimly lit, brick-walled, waiting room, and between which reality seems suspended. At the top people and opportunity await, while at bottom, people assume to create their own, and through its ascension, comes escapism in the form of a chance to seemingly rise above it all. Donn has come upstairs today to audition for a national television commercial.


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