The aroma of his studio is stuffy, and reeked with ink... His desk surrounded by crumpled balls of paper. Sullivan, at his desk, looking depressed, to say the least. The dim, yet warm lights of the studio buzz, and it ticks him off further. When he hears the door creak open, he knows it's time to go back to work, but he doesn't want to oblige... Instead, he stays put, even if aware someone is in the room with him. He turns off his desk light, for it was not helping his pre-determined headache.
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