Lone Writer

I walk down the street in the dark. Cars flash past me, but they don't slow. It is cold but I rub my hands more out of habit than as an effort to keep warm. The leaves under my feet crunch and crackle, but I cannot see them in the dark. The cold stone walls of the newspaper office I pass catch my attention. They've also caught my sweater. I struggle with the strand of sweater caught on some unseen thing, and as I do so, I glance casually into the window behind me.
It is dark inside, save for one light. Through the darkness of the deep rooms, along the furthest wall, I make out a desk lamp creating a small pool of light around it. In front of it is a figure. He seems unbotherd by the dark and emptiness of the room around him. All his fellows have gone home for the night. Yet here he is. Slumped over, his head in his hands, he is the exact image of a writer who longs to be visited by his muse.
Gazing at him, I am suddenly plagued by many questions all at once. Who is he? What is he writing? Does he even realize he's alone? Does he do this every night? And how much longer will he sit, his dinner, and perhaps his family, waiting for him at home? I ponder these questions as I walk to my car.
It is cold but I rub my hands more out of habit than as an effort to keep warm. Cars flash past me, but they don't slow. I walk down the street in the dark.