There it is, the blinking cursor. The uncapped pen. The empty white silence of the page.
They wait for you. They always wait for you.
Except that maybe this time, no. Even the dust motes, your loyal friends of childhood, even they have given up, gone away. Someplace where they are wanted.
Everything hinges on the pause. The thin tendrils of inner smoke. The fire might come.
It might …