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EXT. TWILIGHT

A MAN, probably in his mid-30's, is dressed in a rumpled dark gray suit, shoulders slumped. He holds a tattered briefcase, swinging slightly at his side as he walks away from the subway station and down the sidewalk to his apartment building. And then we hear it...the click.

MAN VO: It's always there. Don't you hear it? That click, click, click. It never stops.


INT. APARTMENT BUILDING

The MAN enters his building and walks up the creaky stairs case to his third floor apartment. Everything in there looks broken or used/2nd hand. More CLICKING. He drops his briefcase by the door along with his keys on the wall and his jacket in the coat closet. 

MAN VO: When I eat. When I sleep. When I'm taking a shit. Always clicking.

The MAN goes to the kitchen and grabs a bottle of scotch, nearly empty, from a high shelf. He downs what's left and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, hissing as the alcohol burns his throat. More CLICKING. He throws the bottle into the recycling bin with a thud and goes to his bedroom, the CLICKING noise insistent. 

The bed is still unmade from this morning. He flops down, face first into the blankets and breathes out. A moment later, he grabs his pillow and screams into it.

MAN VO: Always that DAMN CLICKING. ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS. 

Despite the clicking, he falls asleep.


INT. MORNING

The MAN gets up and goes to the bathroom to take a piss and use the shower. He starts singing. More CLICKING. When he finishes, he gets out, the walls of the bathroom no longer have peeling wallpaper but bright white tile. Shiny and new. The MAN doesn't notice.

After...

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