The page stared at you blindly. The keys of the typewriter refused to clack. The house rocked with quiet. The windows heaved with the perspiration of uncertainty. The room reeked of the perfume of flower boxes. Ideas crept along the eaves and into your mind, but none of them could work their way in. You drew a blank where there should have been pictures, images, landscapes and portraits. Instead your work was a mere whitewash, the foundation of an oil painting left gauche, egg tempera on white.
Determined, you turned and faced the wall. Maybe you’d find a picture there?
A spider prowled the corner of the ceiling, eyeing the fly that was slowly inching towards its trap. Silk, the organic thread of deceit and complicity, the material of death and deliverance, friend and foe at once. You smiled. Ah, the paradox of happiness, the limbo of contentedness, the hollow of success. A
from this solitude.