Lying still. His pen on him the papers by his side, he listened carefully to the rhythm of his heart, the perfect coordinated beats originating from this little organ.
The blood flowing through his veins, charging up like little sparks of electricity. Adrenaline rush, he couldn't control it. His brain was on a wave, shaking; something they call a brainstorm, the words kept coming. God i might run insane. The pen settled on his hands, never leaving until the paper was filled.
He opened his eyes, reading out loud word after word, he couldn't believe he just wrote that. Every word combined in some kind of way; it was speaking to him.
What is writing? Who is a writer?
Then he realized a writer wasn't that someone who writes to speak out his thoughts to other persons, for christsake that would be an artist. Instead he wrote to speak to himself in ways he hadn't before... whoever else it spoke to was just an unavoidable coincidence.