It’s cold and dark outside. The sound of vehicles roaring on the highway and the shimmering sparkles of the headlights. A boy, no older than thirteen, is looking from one paper to another. From the grayed stencils of his pencil on the paper, he wrote. He wrote about the ideas on his mind, a child at the beach, an old man flipping through a photobook. The boy looked up and outside. A pale yellow light projected the narrow and empty street that laid before him. The tree’s leaves were made crescents on the sidewalk, laying still because everything was still, even the boy. The boy snapped out of it, he knew he had to get this done. He knew it. He looked, paper to paper, paper to screen, and back to paper. Was this right? No. It can’t be. Or is it? Burts of empty thoughts echoed in his mind, but he kept writing, then looking, then writing. He wrote for a while, a long while, but it’s still cold and dark outside.