Inops sobs as he writes. Sobs as he dwells within his own misery, within his failings of poetry. His tears fall into his ink, staining the pages, staining the tip of his quill and he shakes where he’s seated.

“Atone for my sins,” he whimpers, “atone for wishing for a dream to become true.” Inops breaks down into whimpers and cries.

I have never been forgiven for wanting. He wrote.