Hergesheimer is writing. A wind waves the branches outside his window. Cruel winter? Coming spring? A heater warms his shins, his knees. He puffs his pipe. The outside day darkens. Hergesheimer sits in a pool of bought light. In his house. In his flat. In his studio. Choose one. In his room upstairs of country town bank manager, dying hamlet, service suspended, chicken and egg situation or vice versa the tail chasing the dog, residence etc, sheds, yard, outbuildings, suitable many uses, imposing corner position, listen to that wind. Whichever. Whatever. His place to make fiction. His fictional place. He…