Writing, Writing, Writing.

All Will could hear was the sound of the tip of the pen dragging ink across the white paper sheets. He's been writing non-stop, every thought that went through his mind went to the paper.

His hand was alredy hurting from how firmly he was holding the pen, he's been out of himself lately, feeling lightheaded by how many unreal things he was seeing, and how many voices echoed in his mind after he woke up and before he went to sleep.

So he did what he knew, wrote, wrote lyrics to a song he probably wouldn't even release. That's a way of dealing with it, right?