It was a dark and stormy night in the abandoned print shop. The inkjet was on the fritz, spewing forth a trail of crimson stains on the walls.
The printer, a hulking mass of metal and wires, seemed to be watching us with cold, dead eyes.
We tried to escape, but the ink stains followed us, like a ghostly entourage.
And then, the printer spoke in a voice that sent shivers down our spines: "You will never be free of my ink."
It was then that we realized: we were trapped in a never-ending cycle of printer horror.
But still, we held on to hope. Hope that we might one day break free from the printer's grasp, and emerge into a world of pristine whites and perfect margins.