As he sat down to write he noticed the shade on the window hadn’t been pulled entirely shut. In the far right corner there was a stream of moonlight pouring into the room.
He rose, turned sharply and with his right hand gripped the edge of the pale blue cloth and stretched it tight to the corner of the window,
drying the stream of moonlight that had previously been spilt on the floor. Now he could begin.
You see it wasn’t the moonlight that bothered David, it was his terrible fear of the world outside. David very much disliked the world, especially people.
So he naturally had an unhealthy paranoia of being watched.
It’s laughable really, to think the busy people of New York City would ever be interested in David’s life behind those curtains. They were all too busy being happy and enjoying their lives.
Deep down David was aware of his insignificance, but nonetheless he was afraid.
When David wrote he wanted to be completed secluded from the rest of the world.
This explains why he would never begin his writing until long after the sun had set and always finish right before it rose again. I guess you could call him a nocturnal creature.
His skin was a milky pallor and his eyes were sunken deep into his brow, encircled by dark rings giving him a raccoon-like appearance.
This was only enhanced by his terrible posture, always hunched over his typewriter with his hands tucked in closely to his chest and his neck forever craning forward, falling below his shoulders.
Aside from David’s appearing to be physically fatigued, he was actually quite handsome. His jaw was strong and his eyes were deep pools of almond and hazel swirls.
He was fairly muscular, almost athletically built, and he had a full head of hair that flowed in curly waves which he had coiffed to the right side of his face.
Sometimes his hair would fall free from his arching over the typewriter and David would whip his head quickly to the right and playfully wisp it back into place.
On all accounts David was living beneath his talents. A highly educated, white, American-born, northern boy with a wealthy family in Roanoke, Virginia.
He had no reason to hide behind those curtains. He had no reason to be paranoid of imaginary voyeurs peering inside his windows.
And he certainly had no business living in New York with all his social phobias and particularities.
He should have been out, getting on with his life, maybe meeting the woman of his dreams and sharing his most intimates secrets with her.
He should have been out, getting on with his life, maybe writing the next breaking news for the Times.
He should have been out, getting on with his life, accomplishing something before the age of 40.
…but instead David is only able to muster the courage to write alone in solitude while he waits for the sun to rise again.