The beginnings of a short work of fiction - a dream that I had.

This has nothing to do with Israel, teaching, but a lot to do with misanthropy. I had a dream a number of months ago and I would like to put it to paper. Here's the beginning. Line breaks should be indentation, but copy/paste doesn't work so nicely here. If you like it, that's awesome. If you hate it, that's awesome too: tell me why.

The atmosphere was as if somebody of had died of untreated cancer. The stench was as if they were a heavy smoker, living here, sad and alone, decades ago. Their life amounted to nothing but an endless column of ash falling from their fingertips which would never find others to intertwine. The walls, too, were pallid with years of untended dust. In this room, and an unfathomable amount of rooms just like this one, sat dozens of people, typing. Typing so furiously on archaic machines that reached their peak in a distant era, much like the imagined smoker who used them. They typed, and they typed. With vigorous fervor, typing madly, attempting to appease the voices which floated through the air.

“Can you hear me?”

“We're looking for you.”
“Just answer if you can hear us, we've been waiting for so long.”
Thousands and thousands of voices floated through the air, creating an anxious cacophony of sound impervious to the attempt of thought to block them from reaching every malleus in the room. They hammered ever so gently on each eardrum, turning the voices into a manifestation of consciousness which fueled the desperation in every occupant of these rooms.

“Answer me, I know you can.”

Despite the attempts, despite the sweat beading on every brow in unprecedented determination, they would never be able to reach the voices. Forever, for the rest of time, they would hear the voices of families and loved ones, calling out to them, pleading with them for contact. They would try, and they would try, and they would fail. They had no choice, this is what they were here to do.

There were many people in here, whom varied in their degrees of filth. There were petty thieves, drug dealers, and various other small time criminals. There were murderers and those who abused their children. There were rapists and pedophiles, those who ignored consent and prayed on the ignorance of the young. They all shared a common fate: an eternal and futile struggle to please a notion as abstract as a hammer translating vibration into sound through an eardrum. Their common fate, they would never satisfy, but they had to try.

There were some that have been here for hundreds of years, feverishly working through countless hours, fidgeting uneasily in their seats, hearing an influx of new voices every second. Beckoning to them, pleading with them, each voice providing a new sense of familiarity. Yet the familiar was not comforting to them, it only surfaced memories, feelings, and an idea of a time which was not so riddled with distress.

There were also those who had arrived just days before, who did not realize the futility in contacting the sources of the sounds that filled the room. They did not know that their determination would refuse to falter, they were unaware of the decades to come. They did not realize that they would spend the rest of time, hoping for a connection with the unimaginable. In this place, however, determination and distress were the only steadfast concepts.

There were women, men, and even some children who had been claimed at the time they should have been. Those little boys who tortured cats, the little girls who spread such vicious rumors that others they knew took their own lives. Nobody was exempt from this place, nobody was forgiven for their actions. They were brought here to suffer, to live in anxiety, confusion, and frustration. They were brought here to die, every moment, as they had once lived. Even the filthy, dirty, little children.

A man sat typing. He had lost track of how long he had been typing two decades ago. Such frantic years, with every moment spanning inconceivable heartbeats. His days and nights refusing to offer relief, with voices that refused to abate. A rotting rag lay next to his hands, covered in the sweat of generations. His hands were covered in his own. He perspired, breathing the stale air, reminded of the scent of his own apartment when he was alive.

“Henry, I'm looking for you.”