what's the story?

a trail of smoke slips away to the right
large bay windows before him
the wooden blinds drawn
light slips in the the joins of the slats
he taps away feverishly but regularly
the blinds drawn now
the sun streams in
distant trees and and manicured gardens
the facing skyscrapers of a megalopolis
distant movement in a couple of windows
the man types on
beyond the dark rooftops
boats ease slowly, imperceptibly across the distant bay
children run amok in the schoolyard below as the sky dims
shouting and bickering in groups and launching balls about
the chair empty as the typewriter sits at rest
an orange light radiates from below the treetops
an unopened letter now sits under the lamp
small rectangles of unnatural light from the facing building catch the eye
the writer seated again typing furiously now
as if to imprint an idea before it flees
the cigarette smoke drifts up from behind his brown hair
the rat-a-tat of the keys ricochets off the walls
only tiny lights from distant freighters over the dark marine emptiness
silence has fallen over the old school building and foregrounds
the memories of childish squeals hang like ghosts by the quadrangle stairs
the light of the desk lamp throws the white panes in relief
the authors figure is in silhouette, immovable
voices creep in from an adjoining room
the typewriter sits in solitude in the crude electric light
brown wooden shutters emanate a Nordic feel
darkness and silence as the typewriter sits once again solidly and solemnly
the eternal inanimate object