He shrugged the wood off his shoulder, letting it fall with a clog onto the earth floor of his Writing Shack. He exhaled looking out of the window. He hoped to see a bird fly by, maybe a blue jay or raven. No bird did. He inhaled. He exhaled again in a way that could only be classified as a sigh. He sat down at his writing desk. He began shuffling through what he’d written, trying to find some sort of pattern.

Each piece of paper—each leaf—” at this he smiled—“is like a tree in the forest.” He was writing as he thought aloud. “I, as the artist, as the writer, must select which to use, chop down those trees, bring them back to my shed and—and—” he frowned as he realized the only end to this metaphor was fire. He ran his fingers through his hair in a self-soothing gesture.

“I need to build some furniture” he thought.