The writer sits in his lonely cell, its walls made of documents threatening to topple over and crush him underneath their combined weight. He stares out his makeshift window, a pinhole shaped from gaps in the corners of unfinished works. It’s too bright outside to see anything.
He envies the words that escape his mind as they flutter off through the tiny crevice, fearful of what might happen to him if they all leave. With each letter that passes through the cracks, the weight of the walls shifts ever so slightly, disturbing the structure’s delicate balance. He can hear it creaking from the pressure, bringing him ever closer to oblivion.
Out of sheer desperation, he grabs a keyboard and starts typing. He searches his mind for something – anything – that could somehow reinforce his jail before it caves in. Inspiration falters. The pinhole shrinks.
Then, as if by some miracle, the clicking of the keyboard acts as a siren’s call.
The words are coming back.