He is an old soul, once driven simply by the desire to create. Once alive simply for the creativity, for the ease and simplicity of creating, but now, he is dead.
In the dim light, covered in a thick blanket of dust and all things old he is seated, a large oak desk stained from lack of light, coated in dust sits in front of him. Directly in the center is an old typewriter, stained old paper in the ring, a ream of just as ancient paper in a neat file sitting next to it.
His final resting place for hundreds of days and nights, he sits, back slightly hunched, forearms resting barely on the desk hands positioned over the typewriter keys unmoving. His body, though not dead, is not alive, his hands once great conductors, magicians of creation, are shriveled, dead and useless for an unknown time they rest.
His body, though unalive does not suffer the same fate as his hands, for they were the instruments, the creators of stories of tales of things unknown. It sleeps, unmoving, slowly and steadily growing older, it needs no nourishment, it is alive but dead.
But now, in the dead of the night, it happens, the fingers unmoved for decades twitch, they curl, the bones and joints creaking from lack of use move.
In a Blur they come alive, atrophy forgotten, and go to work, creativity flowing, powering them as they move effortlessly across the keys, they dance along leaving just a click of the keys behind, as they begin their newest story.
In the dim light, covered in a thick blanket of dust and all things old he is seated, a large oak desk stained from lack of light, coated in dust sits in front of him. Directly in the center is an old typewriter, stained old paper in the ring, a ream of just as ancient paper in a neat file sitting next to it.
His final resting place for hundreds of days and nights, he sits, back slightly hunched, forearms resting barely on the desk hands positioned over the typewriter keys unmoving. His body, though not dead, is not alive, his hands once great conductors, magicians of creation, are shriveled, dead and useless for an unknown time they rest.
His body, though unalive does not suffer the same fate as his hands, for they were the instruments, the creators of stories of tales of things unknown. It sleeps, unmoving, slowly and steadily growing older, it needs no nourishment, it is alive but dead.
But now, in the dead of the night, it happens, the fingers unmoved for decades twitch, they curl, the bones and joints creaking from lack of use move.
In a Blur they come alive, atrophy forgotten, and go to work, creativity flowing, powering them as they move effortlessly across the keys, they dance along leaving just a click of the keys behind, as they begin their newest story.
