The 48th president of the United States leaned back in his desk chair slightly as he rubbed his sweaty brow. His thoughts were tumultuous; he was always frowning and his wandering eyes sought different things around the room. Whenever they settled on the inconspicuous cardboard boxes in the corner, however, he would invariably sigh and clench his teeth. The small headache that had been plaguing him for some time- in fact, ever since his opponent had made that accusatory and, in the President’s opinion, unnecessary speech- was throbbing now, and wondered idly if his head would appear to have been doing so to an outsider.

            However, there were no outsiders in the Office with him; his lonesome company was provided by a rather unlikely set of objects, all of which conducted an air of neglect that seemed to mirror his own mood. First and foremost, set on his desk and with an air of priority was a picture of his family; the President was visible, along with his two children and his wife. In the shadow of this ornate, bar iron picture frame sat his nametag- a brushed brass color, and boldly displaying the name PRES. THOMPSON-FILMORE (“As though anybody with the rights or inclination to enter the Oval Office wouldn’t know my name,” he had grumbled several days ago, when he had been in a particularly foul mood). Sitting on the edge of the Resolute Desk laid a matching brass object- it was a small spyglass, and seemed to be in constant danger of being bumped off the desk by his incessant fidgeting of his elbow. Several different types of desk organizers were strewn haphazardly over the main portion of his desk, as though he had slammed a drawer more forcefully than it had deserved. His water bottle, bearing his political party’s logo sat stylishly, albeit dustily, to the right of those. In the corner, near the foreboding cardboard crates, sat a hotel-like trolley that get most use out of wheeling suitcases.

            No more personal touches adorned the room; the rest was meticulous and impersonal with its heavily carpeted floors and rustic leather chairs. This effect was not pleasant; it made one think of a strict, gaudy library. Perhaps he had decided that the Office should not be defaced by any other personal touches, or else they had been previously placed in the boxes that lay innocently in the corner, but in either case, these boxes looked official (despite their cardboard qualities) and had the President’s seal printed in black across the bulging papery walls.