"Well," he thought, as he preened over his computer, "Here I am again. Staring at a blank screen, the cursor flashing on and off, wondering what to do, how do I do this shit, how do I get words on the screen, enough words that I can give my publisher in exchange for money."

Indeed, he has spent many hours pondering. He has spent too many hours in fact, that he has forgotten one vital thing: nourishment. There he sat... Barely sitting... His skeleton very glaring indeed. He hadn't an ounce of fat, he never ate for a long time now... He just... sat. He hadn't a clue as to what night and day looked like anymore, and appearance besides, he was certaintly and surely, losing the concept that he was a human.

He had begun to think of himself as another enitity altogether. One with a singular purpose, one with different needs, and wants, but like I said, he had barely begun to identify this change in himself. Yet, he could feel an inkling. I know. I know so much because we touched. And because we touched, I know.

I sat there, not knowing what to do. He seemed to have captured me somehow. He seemed to had an aura, that, as I stared on, seemed to become more and more visible. It was a certain greenish glow, like that of stereotyped aliens depicted in mainstream films. I was enraptured by it. I was past the point of fear, it seemed to put me at ease very quickly. And then, I blinked.

And there he was. And he was typing. I looked at his fingers. They moved fast. A blur, a whirl. I saw the screen move as words filled up the once-empty spaces. I saw chapters, I saw long dialogues, I saw headings, I saw large words and small words, I saw simple ideas, and layman terms.

He was writing. He sat there, he lower body very still and his fingers danced, his hands swayed. Suddenly, he stopped. I realised then that I had stared at him for a very long time too. I could feel the grime and sweat on my body, and my plastered hair on my forehead. He turned his head to my direction and looked at me. Our eyes met. He was panting, he, too, was sweating profusely. He didn't smile, his eyes were gentle and at ease. He was done, and he knew he had no more part over here.

So he exploded.

Bits and chunks and him flew around, some were twirling, as if doing a final pirrouette before descending to the ground like a gentle feather, some were catapulted some distance away, through the windows, into the skies, never to be seen again.

I wiped my eyes, enough to see the screen. It was untouched and clean, ready to be read.

And read, I did. And page after page, dialogue after dialogue. I consumed the story, I unravelled the mysteries, and lifted up the layers, and lived the characters' lives. I too, then, was reduced to bones already. And when I read the last page, when I reached the last word, I read the last passage again. Again, and again, and again.

And then, I was done.

So I, too, exploded.