The well has dried up; the words have gone, like ink from a pen that's been used for too long.

"Jacob stared down at the black oil stains in the snow.  They reminded him of the holes left by burning cigarrets.  He didn't like the looks of them.  They looked like cancer."

A flitting thought, a tiny pinprick of inspiration.  You try to grab it and it's gone, lost in translation between your head and the paper.

"'And then our uncle would turn and stare out the window and speak to us with a sadness we could not then understand...'"

Maybe you took a wrong turn somewhere.  The story just doesn't flow in this direction.  So you go back and try to find what you've done wrong.  Days, weeks, maybe even months of work gone in a single click.  And then you sit, and still the words refuse to come.

"'Your karma will catch up to you eventually,' she said. 'It's like trying to pet a cat the wrong way.  You might get away with it the first time or the second time or maybe even the third time, but sooner or later that cat'll decide he's fed up with you.  And then you'll never want to touch that cat again.'"

You think back to the week before.  You thought the words would never stop.  Maybe if you'd have slowed down you wouldn't be where you are now.  Maybe if you'd just sped up and hadn't wasted all that precious time you'd be done by now, and then it wouldn't matter.

"In his eyes were a thousand tiny goldfish, swimming and writhing in an endless spiral around the dark pools that were his pupils."

You sit and stare at a blank screen.  There's nothing left in your head now but tumbleweeds.  You turn off the light, and go to bed.

"And, hand in hand, they walked into oblivion."