"Look at staring at a blank page as a sort of meditation. You're sitting there, leaning back in the chair, maybe with your hands resting on top of your head with your fingers interlocked so your elbows stick way out. Words won't write themselves, and you know that, but thinking about the impossibility makes you want to stare harder and will them into existence. Nothing comes, and as your eyes start to lose focus, the blinking cursor melds with your heartbeat. This is an illusion. If you think about it too hard you lose it, but that line beats inside your ears anyway. Idea mongering slowly slides into a beautiful nothingness, becoming one with the page. As you commune with the page, its possibilities seep into your very being. Unrecognized ecstasy can last up to seven hours for the most dedicated writer. After that, hives start to develop and sweat seeps out of every pore. Epiphanies like this have only one drawback, they always leave the writer where he or she started."
"Aren't we supposed to be participating in a dialogue?"
"Thanks to you, we just did."
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