II

The curtains were closed, blocking the outside world from his view. Greg had gotten tired of the hustle and bustle of the outside world, the honking cars and bright lights that only made his eyes strain. While the muted colors of his one-room apartment seemed oppressive and dull, they were easier to digest than anything else. Standing up, he hobbled over to his kitchen counter, pen in hand, and tore a fresh sheet of lined paper from his notebook. His mind was as clear as a foggy day, sentences and thoughts flowing through his head like schools of fish. Laying his arm on the counter and his pen on the page, his thoughts began to flow through the ink.