man sitting on chair infront of table while looking at laptop

My father, a poet. Since I was a boy, I always watch him typing poet with typewriter. I still remember the ticking sound he made in the middle of midnight and I always waiting for the ding rang. My adulthood, I still sees the behaviour consistency of him, typing poem in the middle of night, without the ding sound anymore. There’s neither place nor condition that make him stop typing. Typing is life.