There is a fellow sitting in a corner of a dimly lit room, staring blankly at a computer monitor. Judging from the tabs on his browser and the the mostly-empty text document, he is trying to write something. Our subject has a pair of headphones on his ears, but no sound is coming from them. Perhaps the muted music was to listen to something else that has long since played and closed. He glances at the clock and glares at the hour; this is a time he would be better off sleeping. The desk around him is a disheveled mess, with pens, paper, cards, flashlights, coke bottles and other assorted items strewn all over it. In another room, a television airs the evening news. He cannot hear any of it, mostly because of his headphones.
Our friend is getting nowhere fast with his writing. Frustrated, he clears off what little text he has entered, and slumps back in the chair. It must have occurred to him in the last few moments that he looks ridiculous wearing silent headphones. Switching windows, he pulls up the playlist for his "Best Stuff," items that he has ranked highly. The iTunes playlist is meticulously kept, as are most of his computer files. The contrast between the desk and the organization on his computer is like night and day. Song picked, he goes back to the text window.
The music helps get things going for a short period. There is hope that whatever purpose he has put himself up to will be fulfilled. He stops every now and then to ponder word choice. You can tell when he has some sort of hidden meaning in there by whether he smiles as he writes. What sort of meaning? It is likely only apparent to him and a very select audience, but is lost on most others. The hours continue to slip away, and drowsiness is setting in.
Having constructed a few paragraphs, our subject pauses. Something is not quite right. He copies and pastes quickly to move one though closer to another, dropping needless drivel in favor of a more succinct way of putting it. He rubs his eyes, and again glares at the clock in the upper right corner. It is a very cold stare, reserved for anything that has managed to anger him beyond consolation. He rarely looks upon another human being in this manner, just his clock or his calendar. Time always seems to get away.
His cursor moves back to the top of the page. There is more to be written, but the tone is set in the title. He takes a moment to scan back up and down the page for inspiration. A casual look away from his monitor causes him to realize how long he has been sitting. Stretching brings on a rush of tiredness bottled up until that moment. The situation has clearly deteriorated, with more of an intent focus on finishing than on word selection. Sacrifices will have to be made.
Titled. Done.