Like puppets, shadows polka’d up the walls and across the table as the stumpy candle flickered in the jam jar, its veins spilling into a waxy puddle.
Edward stared at the paper in front of him. It was dying. Parched, jaundiced and, undoubtedly, jaded, it curled self-consciously, like Eve covering her nudity.
His pen reclined, nonplussed, in the criss-crossed cushion between thumb and forefinger.
Forty-three days he had sat like this. For forty-three days he had floated in the vacuous space inside his skull.
A moth clicked against the glass. Swooped. Erupted. Still Edward was unable to write anything.