The clock strikes midnight in a cookie cutter house.
A screen-lit room, a tired face and empty cans.
The blank white screen mocks him, teases him with untapped potential.
His eyes have bags and his legs feel dead.
His world; untold monotony and endless routine.
His mind; an infinite expanse of journeys and heroes. 
Monsters and kings.
Conflict and dialogue.
The blinking black bar is the tether between the two.
The unchanging strobe a spit in his face.
He touches a key, and his mind explodes.
A story comes to fruition, a projection of his own frustrations.
As he reads over his printed copy, he sighs and tosses it aside.
It lands upon a pile of its kin,
A graveyard of ideas.
A masterpiece is written in his thoughts, 
But the page is still blank.