The Writer writes. The Writer fucks. The Writer writes about fucking. But he also thinks about the neighbors. “Fuck the neighbors,” his new girlfriend says. He shrugs and keeps thrusting, as if he were trying to dig a well between her legs, seeking the Fountain of Youth. They both moan, naked and sweaty on his messy bed. He doesn’t care about the curtains in his bedroom, wide open. He doesn’t mind the time, the broad daylight nor any possible witnesses. He stays hard for half an hour and the world around him vanishes. It’s only him and her and the beating of their bodies, wrestling for pleasure. He will later reflect on that. He will realize that sex has rarely been this good in the past. He’ll wonder what is this all about, what does this all mean. And he won’t ever care about his neighbors watching him fuck again. The Writer’s back.