Her 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.