"Paragon"

Yesterday, I got fired from my job. Or, rather, "made redundant"; the company, in grateful accordance with the Austrian economic model, thinks that there can be no gain without pain, and is thus tightening it's belts. And instead of laying off someone who's earning six or seven digits, they fire someone barely making four. No pain for them, just gain for them. So I went home, sat on my bed, sighed and went to sleep.

And woke up here. I haven't moved a single inch since I woke up. I found two items besides me; a torn piece of paper and a laptop computer. The laptop computer looks like it has been modified somewhat; there's no identifying features on it. The brand logo on the lid has been painted over; the ports have been removed. If there was a charger here, I could not put it in; same if I had a USB memory stick. It is, in short, a keyboard and touchpad attached to a screen. The vast majority of the system seems to be closed off to me, due to "administrator restrictions". The clock on the screen is in clear error; the four digits change at random intervals, as confirmed by "one-elephant-two-elephant" counting to sixty; in that time, it changed thrice. When I did so again, it changed twice. There is an irregular beat to it.

This is the only website that loads; not even the Google homepage works. On the paper, the following words were written, in this colouring: Paragon. -Account Password-. If you seek relief, release. Not quite sure what that means, but I think I should post here.

But that's aside from the point, in my eyes. You may wonder, mysterious Internet denizen, as to why I'm not freaking out, or assuming things at the moment. For one, panic is irrational, no point in panicking. Secondly, I'm either mad or something is "going on". I would think that I'd drank my sorrows away and passed out in this room, but there's three problems with that.

Firstly, no hangover. I'm terrible for hangovers.

Secondly, I don't own this laptop. Never seen it before in my life; given the paper, I'm thinking this is a gift from someone else.

Thirdly, I'd have quite a bit of trouble getting into this room from the outside, on the basis that there aren't any doors in this room. And I do mean that it's just a room; about two metres by two-and-a-half, at my reckoning. The walls are painted in ghostly white, as is the ceiling; the floor is painted jet black. The room is bare; there are no chairs, no tables. Just the hard floor, upon which I am sat now, typing this.

The walls are all solid; I have paced it several times, resting my hand upon the walls as I did so. I cannot reach the ceiling, even if I take a running start at the wall and try to push myself up with my foot. Thus, this room seems to be a closed circle of sorts; I cannot exit, and anything on the outside cannot come in.

I drum my fingers upon the wall as I type this; boredom has begun to set in. I may do some more thinking as to the nature of this place, but from what I can observe, this may be the strangest place on the planet Earth.