He took another sip from his glass; the warm, brown liquid hitting the back of his throat.
A million thoughts flooding his mind; the never-ending battle with the blank page.
The deadline looming over his head; drawing ever closer.
The washing piled up in the corner; waiting to be thrown in the machine.
The dishes are starting to grow mold; sitting on the sink for the second consecutive week.
The house in perpetual ruin; reminiscent of the neglect of weeks past.
His phone getting flooded with messages; his dwindling social life clinging for dear life.
But the deadline is looming; yet the words refuse to flow.
Exiled Writer 