There was an aging writer called Mortise Koshimitsu who lived in a small apartment. The apartment was beset with problems. It was damp, the wiring was frail and in the summer the leaking pipes added a must and swelling to the wood in the windows that effectively countered the joys of the heat. Koshimitsu's life had been lived chiseling away at circumstance, and circumstances had not proved easy. There was however, one small reliable rush to be had, and it lay through a gloomy doorway, down some stairs and past a register.