He stares blankly at the glowing screen in front of him, and then he types a few words. 19, now 21. He feels hollow. How can this be?

When he was a child, writing a story was like swatting a fly or picking leaves from the gutters. There seemed to be thousands upon thousands of stories to tell and he knew exactly how to tell them. He just knew. The same way his heart knew to beat and the same way his eyes knew to blink. It was the simplest, holiest thing in his world.

The stories are all still there. But he has forgotten how to write them. Ten years without finishing anything of consequence. It’s like ten years without prayer.

He blames his father for making him so angry he can’t hear himself think. He blames society for blunting his imagination. He blames politicians for filling his head with infuriating lies that drown out the choirs of sweet music that are surely singing somewhere in his head – if he could only figure out where.

He does not blame himself. This would be too honest even for him.