In a rather small room with a rather small window, a rather small man sat at his desk. The desk was orderly, housing at any one time drawers full of tools and books and aides for work; on top, little more than neat piles of paperwork that change with the day, a well-maintained typewriter and the methodical hands that kept things in order. The window was dim, though curiously so--while inside, the glass was immaculate and polished, though outside was dusty and dirty, left to nature and never disturbed.
Upon the pieces of white and empty walls not claimed by filing cabinets, the rather small window or the rather small door, little certificates and awards for qualifications, efficiency, attendance, and other commendations hung silently, blending in blandly with the walls they occupied. If walls could speak, they would confirm that all they ever heard were the quiet sighs of papers moving back and forth, the silent click of keys typing or the occasional visiting question met with a concise intoned reply.
Mr. Clark was a very simple, complicated man. Were one to look closely at the rather small man, they would see little but this room, reflecting from his eyes.