It’s a waiting game. He’s played it for years. He thinks he should, by now, have more to show for all his patience; should have better things to do with his mornings than just sitting up straight, pen in hand, waiting. He’s wasted all that ink, spent all that time turning all those pages, and drunk all of that uninspired and uninspirational coffee—all for nothing, or next to nothing.
“All there is, is nothing,” he tells himself over and over, doing his best to recall The Master’s most frequent message. And even though he’s sitting alone, watching the first drops of Autumn’s first rain fall, he can clearly hear his old friend Jack’s voice reminding him: “There’s no rain / there’s no me / I’m telling ya, man…”
After a while, he decides he’s waited long enough. He puts down his pen and disappears.