He types away, the clamour of the pressed keys producing a rhythm as regular as a metronome. His mind, suffused with thought, overflows with synaesthetic confabulations and ardent orations. 'No longer a sycophant,' he silently utters to himself, emblazoning the mundane scenes of his previous life in his memory. Instead he finds himself fixated with empty pages: caressing them as though the objects of some fetish, yearning to fill them with his impassioned words, venerating them like a devoted idolater.