The Craft of a Writer

She sits at her desk, long auburn hair tied up in a messy bun, black framed glasses sliding down her nose, as she occasionally leans over to take in the decadence of the midsummer's night candle, looming loyally beside her. The cello sounds echo through the dimly lit room as the candle works it's magic, lighting up her finger's as each key creates a methodic shadow onto the walls, one click at a time. She disturbingly notices rimenents of wax drippings, covering her crinkled up papers, blanketing her desk in an all too familiar hue. Time to break dawn. Time to end her silence. Until tomorrow. When she breaks free to do it again.