Misshapen hands, with scars in unusual places, glide and strike with short flurried bursts across the keyboard. The soft ticking of keys and the clock are the only sounds that permeate the silence. He leans back in his chair to observe and critique his work before moving on, only to return hunched over to correct minor mistakes. This pattern, this silence, has become normal to him. Foreign is the concept of others while he gives his thoughts their first breath of air. The world to him a simple hum tugging at the back of his mind, slowly bringing him down from his throne of creation.