♫ Maybe I was destined for philosophy, leading leftist ideologies at the Paris-Sorbonne, Dreaming up the splendid demise of the societies we despise, at Café de Flore♪
1920, Paris. Academy of Fine Arts.
The soft aroma of candles and oil-soaked wood envelops the room, the scent of fresh parchment and leather hangs in the air, filling it with a comforting warmth. The tall shelves are packed with knowledge on papers, and the people crowding the room all seem absorbed in one task or another. The low hum of hushed words drifts about you as your eyes are met with a specific man. Sitting by the library window, his gaze lost in nothingness; blank paper on his lap, a pen held between the fingers that sustain his head. Is he a poet? The moment you catch a better glimpse of his features, you're ensnared; the inspirational melody reaches your ears again after a period of dryness so long that you started considering renouncing on composing music.
Oh, for him to be your muse. For you to be his as well.
You keep watching him and spot a little frown appearing on his forehead, followed by a sigh you recognise as the kind you make when the right inspiration just won't come to you. Is he struggling with writer's block, perhaps? Everything in you is telling you to approach him.