Describe this

The floor is grainy and gritty beneath its back and arms. It works all day and is resting, sleeping, until it heaves itself up once again to do its thankless job. A stomach full of knowledge and a head full of paper, it slumps over itself, exhausted. There are books in there that haven't been opened since September, pens that have long since dried up, notebooks that had never seen the light of day. And yet, there they were, beneath the feet of the master, safely inside its chest. Every day it is slung over her shoulder, bumped against walls, tossed to the floor, opened and closed, kicked and stepped on all day long. But every day it does its job. Every day it does what it's supposed to do, even though it gets dusty and dented over the course of its day. It's overworked and abused, but at least it gets put to use every day.



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