A Doll's House

All I could see as he approached me was words, words, words. They flew at me with no apparent pattern: phrases from books I'd read, snippets of magazine advertisements, just words.
I tried desperately to grasp hold of them and force them to make sense, but they eluded me. The hid their meaning with a barrage of more and more new words. Word after printed word.
They were coming so fast that the man who was seeming to cause all this appeared to be advancing in slow motion. He took a step, and I read a news article regarding the price of gold and how the western settlers were pawning off their jewelry. Another step and I was frantically searching the pages of a diary written in my own hand, but filled with words I couldn't possibly have written.
He reached for his hat, and the flowing script of a letter filled my vision. "My dearest Emeline," it began.

(c) DaintyDynamite

STOCK:
Background: [link]
Man: [link]
Woman: me
Paper Texture: [link]
Handwriting: [link]
Typing: [link]