G's ability to write had become still. "Still like a noonday minute in the brutal, breathless summer", he thought. It wasn't that G hadn't pondered the situation. However, he couldn't come up with an answer to satisfy anyone, least of all himself. The answer came whilst he stared out the window, at and past the eucalyptus tree. G usually wrote about his feelings and experiences. And for over a month, he'd felt almost nothing; had no noteworthy experience. G was simply making it through the day, day after day, counting the hours, waiting for something to happen. It was Sisyphean . G was certain his family and friends lived similar lives of routine. Sure, there was some tumult now and again, but overall, he could not see reflected on anyone else's face, what he was feeling. Or not feeling. The people he knew were carrying on with their lives, making plans, meeting lovers, getting engaged or married, having children, doing well at their jobs, and fin...