Waiting For the Phone to Ring

He was on top of a high spire of rock. A little music wafted out of the speakers on the old computer desk that perched precariously on the edge. He rocked back and forth while typing, sitting on a ratty folding chair that was positioned even more precariously in front of the desk. He was writing. All around was nothing but darkness, blackness piled upon more blackness. To all sides the empty air extended forever. He was in the world's largest space, larger than anything built by man or God. The rocking of his chair dislodged a small stone which went skittering down the sheer side of the incomprehensibly small spire, making tiny noises until it had gone beyond the range of the ear.