It’s 67 degrees. A gentle breezes glides through an open window. iTunes grooves through the speakers, drowning out the traffic outside. The dog is asleep on the couch with a ball at his side. On the desk is a pile of books, their pages feathered with ticket-stubs and sticky-notes, marking the critical passages. Notes scribbled on pieces of paper surround the keyboard. Splayed out on the screen is a half-written chapter, who’s white emptiness devours each pixel. The cursor blinks, waiting, desperately anticipating the chance to invade the vast emptiness, to turn the white to black, reclaiming the pixels as a victory for knowledge production. There he sits, tapping each key, a slave to the cursor. Blink, blink, blink. Tap, tap, tap. This is how we write.