The room is a library, shelves running high along the walls of the room. The books are all antique hardcovers- the kind with ribbons for bookmarks. The authors are ones like Kipling.
At the far left of the space, there is a staircase, the steps and rails coated in a dark, glossy varnish.
Where no books lie, there is art. They are landscapes in intricate detail, depicting the great cities. Below the largest and grandest (London at dawn), there is an uncluttered chimneypiece, the wood burning below it casting a warm light about the room.
The fire crackling and the clock ticking are the only sounds at this time of night (or morning).
In the far right, there sits a rather exquisite wooden desk-- quite messy, with volumes, papers, and mostly drunk cups of tea strewn about-- and slouched at this desk is a man.
His face is pressed to a book, his arms thrown across the papers. His suit is wrinkled and his hair is in disarray. He is asleep.
