Inspiration is like coming home to a stairwell full of men in white hazard suits, carrying down furniture from upstairs, and a strange smell in the air.

You might not always understand it
or even like it
but if it makes you write, then whose to say that the buzzing of flies in the stairwell is wrong.

But the smell lingers for weeks, and the buzzing quickly loses its charm.
It sickens you, and brands a curiosity in your brain.

So one night you creep up the stairs and find the door slightly ajar. The smell turns your stomach. Its white, static, sweet and rancid. Your trembling hand push the door open.

The hallway is empty, except for a long dark brown doormat. Its cold and dark, the windows are open, and theres a faint whiff of cigarette smoke coming from downstairs.

Its another neighbour, the purple haired girl who spends every night arguing with her boyfriend.

But the apartment is empty. No corpses with sunken eyes or pools of blood on the floor.

Just a sickly stench and a curiosity sated.