There's a violin with a broken string in the corner of the room, a half-finished painting on an easel, acrylic paints strewn all around it, books and clothes all over the bed. The tables are stacked with papers, overflowing and the floor is an ocean of untidiness.
She sits huddled in her chair by the table, the table lamp light reflecting off her glasses. She writes fervently, dipping her pen in ink as she scribbles on bits of paper. There is an urgency in her writing, a deep-seethed passion that overflows onto the papers. She stops and reconsiders her writing. She sighs, leans back and stares at the roof, her blue eyes intent and focussed, as she scans for some inspiration. Every muscle in her lean body is taut, as she ponders on the merit of her work.
After a few seconds, she closes her eyes and stretches herself, letting the tension of previous few hours flow out into the damp and musky room. Then she crumbles the paper and throws it onto the floor. Her entire history lies at her feet on the floor, unclean and littered by her unfinished works of unfulfilled passion.
She writes on.