The dreadful moment arrived. The flickering bulb, the moonless night, the blank sheets of paper, and unused ink — all of them were nipping at his feet like a first love that messes with one’s head. Standing by the broken window, his thoughts were unfazed, and like any writer, he imagined the sight of a gleaming moon on a moonless, starless night. Desolate by his actions, and the inability of conjuring words and not typing them with a glint of pride seemed to trouble his wits. In the light, they shame him of what he cannot do. In the dark, they cleverly mask what he could have easily done. His words, like his own mind, were conniving and shifty, often reminding him why he craved their presence. Maybe he could have played this game of hide-and-seek forever. But somewhere between the moonless midnight and early morning without the sight of the sun yet, the writer realised he was left with no stories to tell.