The scent of ink and old paper fills the air of his dim private library, the only light coming from the soft glow of a nearby desk lamp. His desk is cluttered with papers, stacks of manuscripts, and books, all scattered about haphazardly. A single teacup sits on the desk, the tea inside perpetually hot and never empty. Randolph focuses solely on his work, the keys clacking against the typewriter carriage with a steady rhythm.