When Does It End?

through the window
of an old and aged brick building
glass, cracked and clouded
crusting up a little around the edges
see the girl
aging, too, her glasses
on the edge of her nose
rusted frames, salt-spots
dotting her window to the world
crouch, low
fingers clack on the typewriter
stories, pour out from the ancient and bony fingers
artist fingers, as they say
never stop, just keep going
on and on and what could she be typing now?
some story of a lost
poem, found
looking through a gap
of a brick in the wall, the window
cloudy and crusty and cracked
see the loud and busy city outside going
on and on and when will it stop?
it is quiet in here, she needs her peace
think, just for a minute
what is she typing now and tell me
when does it end?