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Returning home late at night, the author enters his attic apartment, pulls off his wraps, and makes a pot of coffee. Opening the French doors, he steps out onto the balcony and lights a cigar. Below, in the tranquil cobblestone street, wisps of fog drift around the antique lamps hanging from the storefronts. A furtive cat "slinks catpaw silent" through the shadows. Chilled, he moves back inside and sits down at his desk. His neighbors begin to hear the muffled clacking of his manual typewriter as he starts his nightly vigil... It's Cameos in progress, written during the author's three-year...