Sometimes we desire something more than anything. The painting so vivid in the mind is frozen by the trembling hand, then the paint dries, the sun sets and the canvas stays blank. The story is complete, the setting, the characters, the plot, all meaningful and interesting, the reader would put down the book, reflect upon everything, and become better for it. But the writer stares at the blinking cursor, blinking with the ticking of the clock, tick-tock, tock-tick until the sun rises again.