It was the warmest April day on record,and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin tucked into his chin to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Trump Mansions #A37, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
The hallway smelled of flop sweat. At one end of it a colored poster, too large, really, for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face: the face of an old man with a permanent scowl. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the elevator. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and these days the electricity was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the ‘economize drive’ in preparation for Hate Week. The apartment was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had an untreated varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the elevator doors, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures whose eyes follow you about when you move. TRUMP KNOWS, the caption beneath it ran.
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