He vehemently stared at the screen.

Technopathy failed. Nothing creative or profound had materialized in his thoughts or Word Processor. His muse was an unsurprising no-show. Why waste inspiration on atrocious writers like him? Right?

“What’s up?” She asked.

“Suffering.” He typed a paragraph.

“Food’s getting cold.”

“Cool.” He deleted everything.

“Hurry… Eat.” She rested a full plate between them. “You’re probably hungry.”

“Probably am…”  He reached for the plate.

Stomach’s tight. Extremely lethargic.

He hadn’t eaten sinc-

Pap!

She slapped the biscuit out of his hand. “Food’s on the stove.”

“Seriously?” He asked.

“Grab yourself a plate.”

Well, damn.