"My name is Gup and here is my story. Well, actually, it's my story. I've been writing it for a while now, but it's not my story. It's not my life. It's not my death. It's not my life. It's not my death. It's my story.

Gup sat on a hard, wooden chair in the corner of the small room. He was wearing a black T-shirt, black cargo pants, and a pair of black boots. The room was small, but it seemed to be furnished with much more than just the chair and the chair's matching backrest. There was a small table with a computer and a printer on it, and a large wooden chest filled with books. The only other furniture in the room was a small, plain wooden chair that wasn't really a chair at all. It was a footstool.

There were two windows in the room, one on either side of the door. The windows were small and dark. The only light came from a single, small yellow bulb in a wall socket that was on the floor by the door. The room was a little larger than a closet. It was well-lit and had a floor of bare wood.

Gup sat there in the corner and stared at the door. He stared at the door for a long time.

"I'm not going to do anything," Gup said. "No matter what happens, I'm not going to do anything."

"I'm not going to do anything either," the door said. "I'm just going to sit here and wait for you to do something."

"I know," Gup said. "You know."

"I know," the door said.

"You know?" Gup said.

"I know," the door said."