INT. HOUSE UPON A HILL. SUNSET. WINTER.
Within a small room a YOUNG MAN unpacked his few belongings, a microscope he set upon a worn wooden desk, a small telescope, by the window. The remaining items he let lie within a crate, for they mostly consisted of papers, ink, scientific volumes, and medication, for the YOUNG MAN, blessed with infinite cerebral endurance, grew ill even with a passing chill wind. His liver ever ached , his throat ever parched, yet he had escaped childhood and felt he grew stronger with the passing years. Glancing in a mirror he surveyed his countenance, for aesthetics was a matter of degrees, and had he measured a little more in some places, a little less in others he might consider himself a noble man. He soon grew tired, and laid down.
The setting sun reflected upon the westward windows of the town laid beneath him, and he watched the celestial passage of glare disperse as dusk conquered day, and twilight dusk. And soon the many widows were aglow with candle light, satellites of the hearth, and he fancied to peer inside these windows, these isolated worlds, beyond the scope of society.