It’s well past midnight.

Elliott sits at his desk, his hand tangled in his hair as he sits and stares at his typewriter. Occasionally, he types something, reads it over, then violently yanks the paper from the typewriter and crumples it up. There's a pile of discarded papers at the corner of his desk, taunting the poor bastard.

—“Heavens,” he groans, burying his face in his palms. Writing is typically so, so rewarding, but the Muses have decided to punish him this evening. And what for?

He slumps further into his chair, his hair falling around his head in knots. Nothing is going well. No, nothing at all. And resting, hoping that his ideas will be flowing smoothly again come morning, is simply not an option.