Ma pen don’t flow no mo’
The pen remained locked between fingers which remained locked together in the shape of prayer or penance or maybe just because it was the ideal thing to do with hands that had no instruction to do anything else as the writer (Ha!) stared at the empty page and wondered in which dark back-alley his creativity had stumbled into. Gone, withered like the blackened trees of winter.
He looked outside at the pre-dawn sky, sat and wondered why.