Working light.

It was late. But she still sat in her ergonomically shaped chair at her narrow desk and continued working. The tap, tappity, tapping sounds drifting through the silence of the space between us. The time ticked on, the taps became more distant from one another as she paused to read over her work so far. It was getting there, only about a thousand more words needed. It would be finished soon, in time, before the deadline. I sat across the room and watched, hypnotised by the sound, mesmerised by her silhouette against the desk lamp angled just so above her notes. Dedication which causes jealousy was floating in the air above me, the words "if only" ringing in my ears. Another burst of the speedy taps brings me back from my thoughts and day dreams. I see the shadows, the light, the figure working hard. The ideas emanating in jagged flashes from all around her as she continues the rhythm of writing. The light. The working light.

That is all.