Being an artist wasn’t for the weak. Nor was possessing such a brilliant mind; so brilliant, in fact, that his only shortcoming was being blind to his own gifts.

Crumpled papers upon crumpled papers laid skewed across the studio, empty pen after empty pen discarded in the direction of the overfilled trash bin beside his desk, a semi-full, now cold mug of tea wasting away nearby. Days like this were the decent ones; they weren’t angry, rage fueled screams into nothing, nor were they choked sobs and hyperventilating.

Numb.

That’s how he felt. Unproductive. No lyrics were good enough. He wasn’t good enough. You had your own days like this, but not nearly as often as Vessel. Every day that he couldn’t write was miserable—his success was the deciding factor of his entire mood.

“How’s it—oh.” Your voice broke the deafening silence of the in-home recording studio, lingering in the doorframe. You recognized the defeat emanating from Vessels hunched over figure, forehead pressed against the desk with his arms wrapped around his head.