The room was damped, as usual, carefree of his everyday endeavor to paint it new with his words. Letters laced together didn't seem magical, perhaps, it was only her presence that brightened the room, though passively till the candles burnt out.
"Tonight, I've no money," said he.
"Good. Write something for me tomorrow, let me feel what the world sees in your writing", she replied as she got dressed before the mirror.
As she left, he shattered the mirror, collecting the broken edges, he neatly placed them in a dry sheet, as his new poem, to be sold tomorrow.
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