He wanted to write without distraction. He had so many things to say about life, about people, about all the things we do – he just needed a little time alone to get it all out. So, he made himself comfortable in a small room, high above the city, with everything he could need, and sat down to write. And that he did. He wrote and wrote and wrote and, at the end of a very long time, he finished.
He put away his things, left his little room, and went outside. He was full of pride in his accomplishment. He stood on the sidewalk, smiling and happy, and looked around. And, as he looked around, he realised he didn’t recognise anything on this street anymore. The world had changed until he no longer knew it.
He thought to himself: Even more to write about! He turned around right there and then and went back up to his small room, high about the city, with everything he could need, and sat down to write.
And so life turned over and over and people came and went, and he wrote on, oblivious.