Fingers stretched upon the small keyboard. Words that once flowed endleslessly are held captive in the slight curve of those bent fingers.
Words - her voice - had been stolen. A vicious mugging many would say. Her version of the story is a slow drip of a slightly cracked china mug. Hardly realising that anything was being siphoned, she pressed on.
It was only upon the final drip that the once full container realised it had been robbed of everything inside.
Yet, all the marks of a writer remained. Vocabulary readied for quick disposal yet there she sat. Brokenhearted at an empty toolbox.
Words devoid of meaning. Empty words to waste time.
Where does one refill their words?
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