Nothing worth noticing, right? So you turn around again.
But you still feel something glimmering upon you. An eye, a searching glare. You turn around again, all the way, and face the wall. But there is not a thing there. Nothingbut what you saw before. Wall: white, patched, slightly dirty, pockmarked and a small spattering of dark black ink stains... shimmering gently...
Ink stains... shimmering? Glimmering?
Ah ha! That must be it! Nothing more than your imagination stretching the influence of those ink stains. A simple, foolish scare. You laugh easily and turn back to your seat, never thinking of that nagging, gnawing sensation of being watched again.
And a person stands and blocks the light. But the ink stains still shimmer with an interal glow.
You are being watched. Always. The ink stains...
Those ink stains are shy little girls and little boys...
They will gather all of their information, then slowly drip to paper and form into stories based on your trivial comings and goings.
Oh those ink stains.
Oh those quiet observers.
Be ever watchful, they are everywhere.
I am one of them.