Seconds, minutes, hours, days. The audience grows bigger, then smaller, then bigger once again while watching the man publicly work on another one of his short-stories. A sign hangs from the front of the desk, displaying the words ''Do not feed the writer.'' in bold black letters on a white background.

On the opposite side of the table sits Ellison, his fingers furiously smashing into the keys of his typewriter. Entirely in his own world, a world that only Harlan himself could ever hope to understand.

And then eventually, his eyes briefly glance up towards you.