Tap, tap, tap.

The sound of letters on a keyboard being pressed down. From the sounds alone, it is impossible to tell what is being written. The person typing isn't quite sure himself.

The tapping ceases. The only sound left is shallow breathing. Then, a click. That click is equivalent to the sound of a paper full of writing being crumpled into a ball and thrown towards a garbage can. The computer age has just made is a lot quieter.

The body that has been staring at the screen for hours finally removes itself from the chair. It slumps out of the room and shuts the door. The computer still sits, immobile. Although, if possible, with a slight smirk on its screen.

The writer won't be back for another 12 hours. He is catching up on sleep. The empty room acquires a faint glow; the computer screen gains a slightly angry quality.

The muse that is now filling the room wishes the writer would get a new computer. She spreads herself, touching everything with inspiration, infusing all objects with genius, breathing enlightenment into the air. The essence of a sneer slightly emanates from the machine on the desk.

The room wobbles as the spirit sighs. She focuses on the corner of the room that is now slowly filling with murky frustration. The light grows brighter around the desk and computer, but it cannot penetrate the darkness. Satisfaction joins the cloud of frustration for a minute, before it starts to slowly expand into the glowing room, deepening the colour to almost black.

Aware that it is being slowly expelled from the room, the muse starts to panic. She heads into the room where the writer is sleeping. Knowing that she cannot take hold of his studio any longer, in a desperate last chance, she sprinkles herself on top of the writer. He awakens quickly, and the spirit heads dejectedly out of the window.

The sinister studio is suddenly flooded with light when the light switch is flipped. Although the room is bright, it somehow has a gloomy air. The writer sits in front of the computer, its screen as blank as his mind. He is puzzled. He had a flash of inspiration while sleeping, and now it's gone.

A glimmer of an idea flashes onto the computer screen, but is gone as fast as it appears.

The writer sits for another half hour, trying to conjure the idea back into his conscious. He finally leaves. He shuts the door behind him. The computer still sits, immobile.

Although, if possible, with a slight smirk on its screen.