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Description
The grandfather clock read one-o'-clock. The window said it was nighttime. The desk lamp on the desk showed that someone was working. The steady clacking of a typewriter was enough to tell that the someone was a writer. The sighs of frustration said that this writer was having trouble. Numerous crumpled papers littered on the floor said that this writer couldn't find the right words. A calendar on the desk had numerous crosses leading to a circled date, not yet crossed out.

The clock kept ticking.

The desk was littered with various photographs and transcript notes of an interview. This man was a writer. Nothing would come to him as he continued to pound on the desk and typewriter in frustration. It was three-o'-clock.

The clock kept ticking.

The other end of the desk was littered with bills, fines, and foreclosures. A picture of him and a woman, facedown, lay next to the pile. The apartment was empty except for him. Time would pass for the graying man, drumming his fingers on the desk at four in the morning.

The clock kept ticking.

The first rays of the morning streaked across the sky, lighting up the somewhat darkened room. A gun rested in the drawer of the desk, loaded with only one bullet. The man pulled open the drawer and gingerly took out the gun, feeling the weight of it in his hands. He looked upon the remnants of his life gone by in his thoughts: a woman whom he loved, a job he once excelled at, the house he once owned. He placed the barrel against his head, and pulled the trigger. It was seven thirty-five.

The clock stopped ticking.

Description
The grandfather clock read one-o'-clock. The window said it was nighttime. The desk lamp on the desk showed that someone was working. The steady clacking of a typewriter was enough to tell that the someone was a writer. The sighs of frustration said that this writer was having trouble. Numerous crumpled papers littered on the floor said that this writer couldn't find the right words. A calendar on the desk had numerous crosses leading to a circled date, not yet crossed out.

The clock kept ticking.

The desk was littered with various photographs and transcript notes of an interview. This man was a writer. Nothing would come to him as he continued to pound on the desk and typewriter in frustration. It was three-o'-clock.

The clock kept ticking.

The other end of the desk was littered with bills, fines, and foreclosures. A picture of him and a woman, facedown, lay next to the pile. The apartment was empty except for him. Time would pass for the graying man, drumming his fingers on the desk at four in the morning.

The clock kept ticking.

The first rays of the morning streaked across the sky, lighting up the somewhat darkened room. A gun rested in the drawer of the desk, loaded with only one bullet. The man pulled open the drawer and gingerly took out the gun, feeling the weight of it in his hands. He looked upon the remnants of his life gone by in his thoughts: a woman whom he loved, a job he once excelled at, the house he once owned. He placed the barrel against his head, and pulled the trigger. It was seven thirty-five.

The clock stopped ticking.