The writer's hand hovered above a stack of blank pages. A white wash of empty thought crept yet again into the back of her mind. The block that had been there for months threatened to consume her once and for all.
"Do you think we can ever get back to how things were before?" the stack of paper asked the pen.
Alas, the pen, clutched in white knuckle grip, could only draw a blank.
*With apologies to Philip K. Dick