Cursing your clumsiness, You grab a towel from the table and mop up the spilled ink, carefully scooping up the shattered remains of the inkwell and dumping them in the trash bin. You wipe your hands on your jeans, yet some ink remains stubbornly smeared on your skin. Sighing in disdain, you throw the covers over your typewriter, before walking to the doorway and switching off the light switch as you exit the room.