She sat. With one weeping eye and a glass of wine she stared at the screen until her brow furrowed and her jeans strangled the paunch below her navel. This was torture, this empty screen, this blank space where nothing and everything had to make sense in a flurry of words. She bit her lip, took a deep breath, rolled her head around. 9:47 pm. She is no writer, no scholar, no one. Her only deadline is the inevitable end that awaits us all. It is silent save for the click and the whir of the machine. 9:54 pm. It ends.