I haven’t written in ages he thought as he sat down at his desk and stared at the blank piece of lined white notebook paper that stared equally back at him. He grabbed a pen from its holder and noted all the bite marks on the cap and wondered if all were from him or if some of the marks were from former flames, ones that had stood over his shoulder and peered down while he was writing.

He shook the thoughts from his head. It had been a long time since there had been any spark with anyone, hardly enough for a flame.

Ben put the pen nib to the paper and began writing. Words were forming on them but they were not his own and they did not stay. They would fade. They would crumble. They would be as if they never were.

He rubbed his head, paying attention to the bridge between his eyebrows as if the massaging of that one area would elicit an idea.

It did not.

He continued to stare.

The paper continued to stare.

He heard the carbonation fizzing in a gin drink he made before sitting down but could not motivate himself to lift the drink and take it to his lips. He was at a loss and knew there was no way out.

The end of the pen cap rolled onto the floor. The pen followed. Ben slumped down in his seat and rested his head on the paper. He fell asleep and dreamt of robots hunting with Ted Nugent, of swimming in obsidian clouds as the planet below obliterated itself in war, of a girl he knew in college that he had a crush on but never had the guts to talk to. Ben dreamt a thousand dreams and a thousand stories but when he woke up his mind remained blank and full of static.

He stared at the paper.

The paper stared back.

Ben closed his eyes.

The paper continued staring.