His brand new addiction was taking root in his psyche. He had churned out story after story, bound within a sphere whose dimensions were all one kilobyte.

After several hours the stories stopped coming. The people he could see only in the window of his mind, moments ago frolicking effortlessly through their respective worlds, were now startlingly still.

Panic set in slowly. He realized this and wondered if panic that sets in slowly is really panic at all, or is it just an unease with a crescendo.

He frantically looked around an unkempt room for an idea but to no avail. He had already written the story about the empty terrarium and the one about socks.

One last hope. The button at the top pf the page. It promised “inspiration,” now all his hopes were set upon it.

“We’re working on it! Promise!”

At first, ultimately crushed, his first instinct was to stop, wake up, wash his socks. Then it came, slowly as the panic. He would not put on pants today after all. There was still a story to write.

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