The writer absent-mindedly fingered his whiskey glass.
Lifting it up before the window he admired the richness of its deep brown colour. He was temporarily lost in thought about the twelve years that it sat in the barrel, slowly picking up the pigmentation of the wood, darkening as it aged. He looked back at the screen, remembering that he was about to create a new story. He adjusted his keyboard and settled back in his chair. His fingertips rested lightly on the keys. He blinked a couple of times and took a deep breath. He froze, aware of the fact that his little grey cells were becoming muddled.
With the jumbling of brain cells came the loss of clarity, with the loss of clarity came the vanishing of the notion, with the loss of the notion came the fading of the idea, with the loss of the idea came the waning of the place, with the loss of place came the going of the event, with the loss of the event came the departure of the characters, with the loss of characters came the dying of the activities, with the loss of activities came the declining of the dilemma, with the loss of the dilemma came the exodus of the crisis, with the loss of the crisis came the failing of the plot, with the loss of the plot came the evaporation of the story.
With the evaporation of the story…
Well, he thought, as he tipped the remainder of the bottle into his glass, if it could slip away that easily… it probably wasn’t worth writing. Besides, the whiskey was absolutely first class!