T he Page glares up at him, white and blank and hungry. It is small but immense, finite but endless. It demands words be written. But he hesitates, fingers poised above they keys. Will this word be the right word? The endless stories that he can see with his mind beg to be set free into the world, to be placed onto this Page. He knows he must share them. But will the true words come? Will the story set out on the correct path once his fingers fly and keys come down and words, sentences, paragraphs fill the Page? He looks again at the Page awaiting on the screen. The Cursor blinks steadily, prepared to reveal the words he types. And yet no words come. He looks up for a minute, trying to find the right word to start this journey, to fill the page and tell his stories. He looks out the nearby window, the world outside visible through the thin white curtains. The street is quite, and no one moves about in the pale light of the late afternoon winter sun. It isn't late yet, but dusk will...