Quiet of The Night

I sit at my desk in the silence of night. The room is dimly light with electric lamps, lamps equipped with lightbulb that are plighting forward on one final leg. My desk is a deep brown stain, it's not majestic or immaculate; but rather it's of a decent size, neither too big nor too small, neither too grand or too shabby, just right in the middle between glory and dust.

On the desk top there a few noteworthy articles that are essential to my craft, my way of life, if you will. There is a newly purchased Smith-Corona Silent-Super typewriter, with a grey mate finish, and deep green keys, that sits firmly on the desk. It's lightweight, yet utterly reliable. On the right of my main writing instrument, lies a stack of typed papers, a novel in progress, before any are told of it's possibly existence. On the left lies a rather talk stack of blank papers, waiting to be impressed with the story in my mind. Towards the upper right hand side of the corner of desk, stands a coffee cup, this however isn't filled with coffee, but rather with pens and pencils, my main editing equipment. And to the upper left hand side if the corner of the desk, though not too close to the edge mine you, sits a large glass of sweet tea -- home brewed to be precise and accurate. The outside of the glass is coated with condensation, which in turn creates what will become yet another ring stain on my middle-place desk.

In the background the radio plays the new hits, some of them more than once within a fifteen minute time span, and others but hardly once a week, and sometimes, only once.

Feeling the new hits, self proclaimed as "Rock 'N Roll" by the radio station, were too much for my ears at the moment, I rose from my seat, casting long shadows over the room as I strode slowly towards the radio and tuned it into a classical station, which I did prefer for the quiet of the night writing sessions. Feeling satisfied with the current musical background, I strode back to my chair, which was at my desk. And after sitting down and become reacquainted with a comfortable posture, the click-click-clickity-click of the typewriter began to mingle with the music in the air.

- Michael Hall