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A small finger twitch, a missed key. The hands stopped, poised poetically over the keyboard, hovering mer millimeters from the keys, from the letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, pages, chapters, books, greatness. Another twitch, yet still nothing. The little line blinking on and off on a blank document. An open canvas waiting to be filled with words to paint a wonderful picture. A letter is put down, then another, and yet another, a word is formed, more come. Soon there is an entire sentence. Then, *bip*. The delete button is put to use. Nothing. Blank once again, just like my mind. Inspiration is necessary for creation. Where to look? Where to find it? All I can find, is writers block, nothingness. Then, in the dank dimness of my mind, a small lightball flickers to life. A pathway around the block shows in the light illuminating from it, and I follow it out of my mind. I go around the block and the page soaks up the words that fly out of my fingers. Like ink spilled on paper. Soon, it is done, my way around the block, a picture, the canvas full.

To escape the block, I must be inspired by it.