Illuminated by a solitary lamp on the corner of the desk, a well rounded man strikes furiously at the keys on an Olivetti creating a cacophony of dull thuds as the arms swing back and forth. Occasionally he pauses to take a sip from the tumbler sitting to his right, or when the lamp starts to flicker. A haze of smoke hangs low in the room, the overflowing ashtry provides substantial proof as to how this might have happened.
He suddenly tears the paper from the platen crushing it in one hand and throwing it aside. Stretching for another leaf of paper he grimaces as he notices the time. ‘Five hours’, he sighs wiping his brow. Only five hours remained until the deadline. He was cutting it close this time, but unlike other manuscripts he wanted this one to be perfect, he didn’t want it to end.
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