The writer looked at the empty page in despair.

Frustrated, feeling his soul so full, but his mind unable to dump it into the paper, he was slowly dying. The inspiration wasn't coming. His spirit longed for art. He almost could feel it with the tips of his fingers, but always slipping away from him.

Hollow words forming incomplete sentences. Like a puzzle, missing all the important pieces. His work had a perfect technique, but it lacked life.

Then, on his darkest night, the writer cried out amid the vapors of alcohol and storm. He cried out to the sky his desire for sacrifice. He offered everything he had in exchange for what he was looking for.

The art.

Then, the muse appeared.

She flew in from the shadows. She was beautiful like no other. Her skin was white as paper and her eyes black as ink. Her hair was a dancing poem and her movements told a story with every gesture. Her lips were red as blood, shed for love.

She found the writer's body, fascinated by her. She laid on his icy skin, while hers was warm and wistful. The man felt her closeness and her slow breathing. Her girlish smile and her womanly body. The innocence of the first writing, done with a trembling hand, and the glory of the masters' most exalted novels.

She looked at him with promising eyes. She stroked the messy hair of the anguished man who summoned her and kissed his dry lips.

He put his hands around her and created verses of passion and fury. That night, every second lasted for centuries. Mysticism and reality, skin and fantasy. The most beautiful dream anyone has ever had.

At dawn, she looked at him again.

With mockery. With rage. With spite and disappointment.

And she left.

The writer cried for her with a shattered heart, carried to heaven and then dropped into hell. His burning soul had painful sores. The greatest love killed by the deepest sadness.

And the writer took ink and paper and started to write. He wrote non-stop for days and days. Stories and poems, verses and songs, praises and sonnets. The dam of his soul, broken by a kiss. His desperate hand captured with tears and blood the most beautiful words that any mortal had the honor of reading, united in majestic ways.

For days and days, he wrote. Until his body got undone, and his heart got exhausted. Until his soul vanished into nothing.

But he would live forever in his work, like all the masters. Like every man who has immortalized himself on paper, for present and future generations to amaze. His feelings taken to the limit of glory and abandonment.

Immortals are rarely happy.

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