A Scene to Set: Essentially My Every Writing Endeavor

Imagine a dark room, illuminated only by the string of star shaped lights that hang around her desk, and the blue and white glow of her computer screen. Cross legged with strained eyes she writes and writes, pouring what last scraps of coherent and comprehensible words lie within her, into her keyboard, and onto the internet.  The hot tea beside her has grown cold and a lonely and empty bag of cheez-its sits on the floor, bits of salt and orange crumbs dust the bottom.  It's quiet except for the subtle tap tap click tap tap tap click of her keyboard.  The taps and clicks are sometimes rushed and loud, the times when an idea has struck and the words can't come fast enough. Then they grow quieter and more spread apart, the times when she's thinking, unsure of what she has to say and how to say it.  The clock on her desk, ticks the minutes by, and every time she checks it, she thinks the minute hand must be broken for it had jumped ahead minutes and hours that she hadn't realized passed.  Finally the computer screen is closed, her writing saved, preserved on the no longer glowing screen, and she takes the few steps from desk chair to bed.  An evening wasted or well spent she isn't sure, but she thinks, an evening of words is never an evening wasted.