Re: Sitting area; sofa
"You don't understand." He wasn't sure if he could explain. He only knew that she was wrong. He didn't need to care for himself. He lived, breathed, slept, walked this. This desire to write was his waking desperation. He couldn't imagine sleeping because he'd lose language in his sleep. That perfect sentence, the one that eluded, always came to tease in the gloaming. He must live in the gloaming. (Now you've lost it, and once it's lost...)
He wanted her pains. He wanted everything that was her, but he didn't know she was holding back. He assumed muses did not, or maybe they did and it just didn't matter that they did. They were a springboard, a starting place, a genesis. That thought entered his mind as she wiped at his brow, and he moved to another part of the coffee table and began to scribble there.
"No. That isn't my pass," he told her. She was talking to a wall in this. He wouldn't change his mind and she couldn't sway him. His idea of creation was a seed planted a long time ago. A drink had caused it to germinate and grow limbs throughout his body, but she couldn't change the original concept.
When she touched his jaw, he looked at her for a few seconds. It was a long look, a perusal. "Do you touch everyone?" His pen was poised for the response, even if his hand was less steady than he'd been at the outset. He would stand soon, lift himself and slouch back on the soft comfort of the sofa. Soon, but he wanted to capture this first. Did she touch everyone?