His eyes transfixed on the page, hand still. Seconds passed.
Suddenly he drew a oversized, contemptuous ‘X’ over his work and a separator line beneath it,
and with gleeful haste he scribbled:
How come the only moments I enjoy are memories?
Walking over to the bookshelf, X reached up high and carefully collected an old camera from the top.
He hurriedly returned to the page, took aim, and shot.
A few seconds later he had thrown the camera out the window, and was laughing uncontrollably on the floor.