The man sat at his desk, waiting for an idea to spring into his head. Every time the vestiges of something crept into the corners of his consciousness, he got excited; every time it slipped away again, he became depressed.

It is only natural, he thought. Better to call myself a writer and produce nothing (nothing of value, anyway) than to face the harsh reality of being unemployed. The world was so much different from the golden years of his youth.

Maybe I should write about that, he said aloud to himself, quietly. I could write about how people who live in conditions of abject poverty submit themselves to fantasy in order to keep sane.

Yes, the doubting voice in his head whispered, but what about your fantasy? What will happen when you break out of the illusion you’ve set up and discover that you are not, in fact, a writer?

The man shook his head, and sat once more in silence. His pen made no moves on the paper. He was a defeated man, waiting for a muse that would never come.