The second day was spent staring blankly at the keys.
As was the third and the fourth and the fifth. Ghosts of ideas floated around in my brain like dust motes. Every time I'd reach out to grab one, it'd suddenly dance out of reach. These days the typewriter just sits on my desk, a relic waiting for me to use it and abuse it. Occasionally I plink at the keys like a child at a piano, but still nothing comes out of me.
