• A man sat at his desk, contemplating as to what to write. He frowned, an edge of annoyance scripted upon his deep brow. He fingered the strings of his violin with distracted affection. His eyes were cloudy for he was blind. They were once a soft grey-green but now all that was left were orbs of colourlessness.

    As his weathered and scarred hands gently stroked the catgut strings, he blindly faced the blank page in front of him. He didn't really care about the fact that he was blind.

    In his study, his abode, he felt most content. The walls were built with bookshelves and his books covered said shelves. They were all old and dusty and had the archaic smell of love. One shelf was dedicated to his own works. Some of the books were prose, and some poetry. There were screenplays and musical compositions. And some books were even in braille. The books on that shelf were the result from the loves of his life. Those loves being writing and music.

    Letting his violin go, the man stood up and walked to the nearest bookshelf. He needn't use a cane for he knew exactly where everything in the room was. He pulled out a medium sized book and brought it back to his desk. He felt the spine of the book and knew from the feel of the lettering that it was Macbeth. Opening the book to its middle, the man pulled it to his face, and, closing his eyes, inhaled deeply. The smell was unadulterated bliss. He gently pressed his lips against the fragile paper, knowing it was yellow and thin from years of fingers flipping through them. He took the book away from his face and set it on his dark mahogany desk. Pulling his fingers towards himself excruciatingly slow, he studied the scars on the desk. Then, tracing his fingers on the wood, he searched for his violin and bow. Once he found the rosewood frame, he gripped it.

    He rested the instrument upon his right shoulder, and, with his left hand, played a single note. He closed his eyes as it flowed from him in a clear resonance. No one heard him play except his loyal books. The edge of his lips ascended into a very delicate smile. He put the violin on his lap, the bow on top, and took the pen which eagerly awaited to release his thoughts and emotions onto the blank paper.

    The white page never received black ink to tell a story; only a red splotch which told it all.