"This is so obnoxious," muttered the writer under his breath.
"One day though," whispered an omnipresent voice, "you'll have nothing to say at all."

And so
The writer wrote

Until one day his pen ran dry and his fingers ached to a degree beyond ignoring.

"Finally," he thought to himself, "I can close my eyes."

And a moment passed. The same sun was rising. He opened his eyes and there were no words. Only images. Images he had imagined when his eyes closed.

Each story becoming his life.

And so
He followed the pattern
Of justification

Each night, when his pen ran dry, he had nothing left to do. But wait. Wait for his eyes to close and his pen to rest. Wait for his dream to rise and fall with each breath. It was and still is a constant battle of waiting for the story to become the life.

And so
The writer waits
Just like the rest of us