fingers wrapped around a dull pencil that she gently tapped. A quiet
rainy day droned on outside the window to her left as she scratched
writings of Morrison into the bottom corner of her desk.
So many geniuses die, she thought to herself with meloncholy, and she
wished for the feel of a smooth pick between her fingers. A lonely
overdose or a bullet to the head is always the case that puts the
brilliance to rest. The fleeting, unrefined brilliance that once shook
the earth. She wondered why. Maybe emptiness. The ineptitude of the
people that hover around them. Maybe wisdom causes paralysis of the
soul. She prayed for so many deceased prodigies as blue raindrops melted
the glass window frame.