Arthur Kirkland glanced out of the foggy window, chin leaning into his palm and pen uninspired upon the desk. He was attempting to write but the words simply would not come. His notebook was blank, those demonic little lines hollering at him from the oaken surface below.

He watched his own brows crinkled inside the cloudy glass.

Oh, they were so thick.

Maybe you should write a poem about that.

Or maybe you should just go to bed. After all, Arthur, you're getting on a boat tomorrow and you're going to France.

For a moment, The English gentlemen thought. Well, he had been thinking, but he actually managed to focus. The reasons for his departure were searched for, throughout his entire mind, and not one of them could be recalled. Not a single one. It was as trying to pull a lost coin from a darkened well. His fingers were too stupid for the task.

So, instead of dwelling, as he had been the last several hours, Arthur Kirkland lit a cigarette, and watched himself in the window.

Messy blond hair. Deep green eyes, as a field untouched by man's sin. Hands beaten to death. Oh, and they were. One might think Mr. Kirkland was involved with building something or other, or had perpetually gotten into fist fights. However, he was an aristocrat and only got into a good and violent argument every once in a while; not so often as to mar those writer's hands.

He had been published before as well. A book of poetry entitled The Contemplation of Life, with his name written in pretty gold lettering right on the front cover, beneath the title. Arthur wrote plays as well, but there were so many of those naming them would be nothing but a hassle.

Each time one of his works was published, Arthur swelled with pride, despite whatever nasty reviews he might have gotten. It was not as though he was a bad writer; he simply lived beneath the scrutiny all poets and authors do. For every work, there are a hundred critics. That's what a friend told him when those hateful words were read.

A lot of people adored him.

And now it was time to see if the French would too.

Arthur had been practicing his Français for the occasion. He had spoken it all his life, and had spoken to many a Frenchman, but he lacked the confidence to simply go there without brushing up whatsoever. When something is not used, one tends to forget. What was that word again? How do you say that? This language wasn't this strange beforehand.

On the first page of that horrendously bare journal, pretty French words had been written in fine cursive. That was the only thing Arthur had managed to write for the last four months, and it had only just been transcribed.

Four months didn't seem like such a long time, when he thought about it. But when you're an author, not doing your job for one third of a year is shameful. Everyone kept asking what he was working on, as Mr. Kirkland usually wrote beneath a veil of mystery, but he had not an answer for them. They accused him of keeping the next greatest work to himself; he was keeping it a secret. Dear God, what he wouldn't give for that to be true. A secret play or maybe even a novel this time, the greatest one he had ever written kept beneath the white cloth for that very special day when it was finished.

But there was nothing beneath that sheet but a phantom. A mess of mangled bones, with the marrow drained from them, not even a single use for those remnants but to be remnants.

A great and weighty sigh passed from the man's chest.

This writer's block, if that's what it was, was a fatal disease. Maybe he should have checked himself into a mental ward instead. What will going to France do? Writer's block is writer's block. Whether it's in Paris or London doesn't really matter, does it?

No. Maybe not.

The ashes from his cigarette fell onto the empty page. They left little welds, the parchment churning beneath their heat. But now this empty book had character, with its scars and pretty French words. Now it was something more than a sad and barren thing. Now, it was a sad and barren thing with hideous tattoos and a grimace.

It's not like it would have been used anyway.

Arthur looked to the clock, ticking upon the wall, one of the many things he could not drag with him. It was one in the morning. The ship left at six. Then, he considered his scarred notes. Then, he considered his sheets, which looked rough and cruel, as though barbed teeth were sewn into the fabric. Harsh wires for threads. Sandpaper for filling.

He forced himself to lie upon the surface, as the comforting tick-tock lulled him to sleep.

Arthur did not dream. He hadn't dreamt in four months either.