A young man is hunched over a typewriter. He sits in a rickety, straightback chair leaning over the wooden table that holds the typewriter, which is a big, old-fashioned manual. If it were an electric typewriter, there'd be no place to plug it in anyway. One of the table's legs is missing and has been replaced by a stack of books. Papers are spread around the typewriter. Crumpled sheets of paper litter the rough wooden floor. The young man has long hair. It's summer and he's typing in his underwear, a white brief with a thick elastic band. He's thin and wiry. His torso and face are moist with a sheen of perspiration. It's hot in the attic. The stillness and the dark evident through a small window next to the table suggest that it is late at night. He types for a moment in a flurry of excitement. Then stares at the typewriter. Then turns away to look out the window.