Either he found the inspiration to continue writing, or he lost his publisher and his apartment, rent was past due too… two months now? Time slowed down with writers block.

His inspiration, the pages sitting in front of him (which he printed at a local print shop to avoid having to open the files on his pc) waited.

They were pages he had written a year ago, he couldn’t remember what was there specifically, but he could remember their tone – raw and carnal. They were words dug out of the crevasses of his soul and scraped off onto the page. The words were sharp and sliced at him with brutal honesty. They cut deeply into the soft side of his insecurities, spilling the blood of his confidence. Writing it had been an act of masochism, but worse he reveled in rereading its honest brutality, in his sadism. The words were a doorway into that dark inspiration.

He stared at the stack of poisoned pages, they were still warm, warm with new life. He pored himself a drink and turned the first page