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On some days he was at the café, staring at life outside the window, downing endless cups of coffee. Black, strong, sugarless and piping hot. Crumpled sheets of paper were strewn around the table, proof of his failed attempts. He snapped at the waitress if she tried to clear up the mess. When he could take it no longer, he would walk out into the open and roam the streets, his senses taking in even minute details of the world around.
On other days he would sit by the beach watching the waves crashing onto the moss laden rocks bathing in the golden rays of the setting sun, wondering if the scurrying crabs and the flying birds had a story. He was lost within his thoughts almost all the time, forgetting to eat, sleep and change. His stubble and unwashed jeans were silent witnesses to his growing agony. He hardly spoke to anyone but himself, which made people stare at him and exchange glances that declared he had lost his mind.
But he was a writer, not a madman. He cradled stories within him that tossed and turned impatiently, waiting to find expression. He did not want to give up. His resolve to pen a few words became stronger by the day. Every day he set out with a pen in his hand and hopes in his heart, positive that the silence of words would end soon.