A short story about a Writer and his struggle to finish his masterpiece. While he is working, thoughts pervade him about what is he doing. Finally, he caves in and finds out what is motives are.  

'Auribus teneo lupum'
                                      -Phormio

The pencil bite down on the paper,
making letters into words.
The words turned into sentences,
The sentences became paragraphs,
Then the pages started to pile.
The Writer worked hard on this project of his,
eventually, it will finish.
When will it finish?
Is it ever going to finish?
The question perverted into the mind of the Writer,
He nodded it off.
He added another page to the stockpile of pages.
The whole stockpile was well over a thousand!
When will he stop?
If, he can stop.
The thought claimed his mind from writing,
when will he stop?
He nodded it off again and added another page.
How long has he been doing this?
'Oh, I don't know,' Said out loud by the Writer,'Can you just let me work?'
He added another page to the pile.
He looked down to see the pile.
Golly! The chair, which thought he sat on, was a pile of papers!
Even worse, the entire floor was paper.
What is happening?
He looked up at the ceiling, which wasn't there, he saw something else.
Which letters; words; sentences; paragraphs; and pages can't describe.
He stared for minutes in the end.
Silent, and impossibly still.
He then continued to work, aware of the thing above him.
If it is a thing, being, human, monster, and etc?
It just gave him the will to work.
Is it capitalism; communism; or is it fear?
I don't know, do you know?
Of course not!
Is it just pure speculation to it's best?
Or is it, love; will; or religion?
I don't know.
Do you want to know something else?
He doesn't know either.

Short story. (Only one chapter)