Ever since I stopped writing the world seemed to be clawing at me. Well, with the exception of Bobo the cat, of course, who did not lift a single plump paw at my composure, but there would always be someone, something crooning over the fact that there was no longer an ounce of passion left in me. None.

              I listened to the soft pitter-patter of rain against the window glass, the faint tapping of a tree branch ensuing from the hollow whisks of wind. Tonight seemed to be peculiar. Instead of pacing back and forth, Bobo was curled on the rug in front of my bed, snoozing away softly to the silent lamentation of the midnight hour - someone was meant to be coming. Bobo liked visitors.

               The shadows wavered on the walls like kaleidoscopes, the wind progressing with each second. They were everything: vigorous, striking, and alive to the point where it stopped abruptly, like everything had frozen in a lapse of time. My eyes fluttered open, feeling the presence of an entity. There, in all his unspoken glory, was the shape of a man sitting back on an armchair which was placed in the corner.

              “I came because I wanted to read your writing, ” the figure said after making sure I had noticed him. He radiated a sense of both peace and calamity, a divine combination. The moon beams illuminated his long, slender body aside from his face which was concealed under the silhouette of a fedora. For a passing glance you could mistaken this man for a gentleman that had just arrived from a casino night, but his mannequin-like body suggested otherwise, that he was someone almost … inhumane.

              “I don’t write anymore,” my voice ached. “You come here every week, expecting a different answer - no. Won’t do it.”

              That was enough for him to lift his head slightly upwards. You’d expect a pair of eyes to be glinting back at you, but in his case, there were none. Instead of sockets there were two smooth slates of skin, as if an artist forgot to draw them in. The eyeless man’s nebulous features had been engraved onto a molten wax visage with godly precision and just like the night he had visited before, the same jolly black fedora hat was perched on his bald head - the only thing that was missing, really, were his eyes.

              I noticed that Bobo was resting under his feet, the cat’s feathery tail wrapping around his pant leg as she purred delicately. I crossed my arms at the man who simply tapped his fingers against the armchair, waiting.

              It was quite obvious that he could see. Of course he could see, he wasn’t real. The man had an unquenched thirst for lengthy pieces of writing, mine specifically. I felt a flash of disdain cloud his face, "You promised that you would write for me ...”

              My stomach twisted into a knot as I helplessly watched the eyeless man rise from the chair, his tall figure almost reaching the ceiling while he approached me in a hunched manner. He moved ever so slightly, inching closer to my place on the bed and stretched his long, dendron-like hands to reveal a little rose before he tucked it behind my ear. “A gift,” he hummed and helped me slip out of the bed. For someone with no eyes to express anything, he omitted a burning solicitude.

              “Alright, fine.” I clicked my tongue and followed him to the desk, sensing his monotone triumph, “But … you have to let me sleep.” A smile danced on the man’s lips as he peered over my shoulder from behind, waiting for the words to be written. Instead, I blinked in perplexity, what do I write for him?

              Of course, writing is an intricate art. I twirled the pencil between my fingertips, a thousand stories unfolding from the interlocked crevices of my head. Slowly. Perpetuating. Do I write for myself? My own aching self? For my own eyes and grasp, locked under blankets of self-preservation? Or do I write for the man that coaxes me into succumbing to my pitiful, unused passions? Forever, buried under the dust of an empty life, I began to feel the urge to pour out every word from the chasms of my head and let it exist.

             He was silent. Still, he had not moved, not even his chest - as if he even breathed - and just stared, waiting.

              What do I write for him?  The question buzzed through the walls of my skull. He doesn’t understand the burden of words, the intricacy of sentiments and pain and joy and contentment. What do I write for a man with no eyes?

              The words cascaded down onto the paper one by one, and as the eyeless man watched from my shoulder, the wind began to sing again.