The silence pounds at my eardrums louder than a construction site for a New York city skyscraper. Words like fish in a pond that I have to grab with my own bare hands. Numbly staring at the wall as it laughs at my sickness while I cough back fumes of ink, amounting to nothing. Stare. Cough. Nothing. Surely this marks the end. The ink pumping through my veins yesterday abandons me today, leaving my pen lifeless. Colors beginning to fade into a ghostly pastel painting and soon again into the gray vastness of emptiness.