Henrik

            Henrik sat down to write a fictional story. The characters were dynamic but the plotline was static; he dropped his pencil in a panic. The setting was dull though the pages were full, nothing of interest came out of his skull.

            Henrik then sat down to write a nonfictional story. He scratched his head as he tried to remember things his mother had said, but mental cobwebs ruled instead. The story was bland, nothing too grand, because of the march of time’s sand.

            Henrik sighed and tried to write a poem. Meter forgotten, rhyme schemes begotten, he finally found nirvana.