John Smith sits at his desk; the only sound the quiet scratching of pen on paper. He dips the nib in the inkbottle again and continues to write, deftly blotting away excess ink to keep it from running. It’s a habit so ingrained he doesn’t need to think about it.
He has to get the details of his latest dream down in his notebook before he forges them. His head is filled with images; faces of people, the outlandish forms of monsters, strange devices. He’d never realised he had such a vivid imagination.
Maybe one day he’ll publish his stories.