Re: Sitting area; sofa
The ways she thought about this creation needing to be a thing he got through made it seem like something bad. If he could just get to morning, etc., but he didn't see it as a bad thing. This feeling of purpose was complex and meaningful, and it would be doing it a disservice to say it was something to be endured. This was creativity. He could almost feel the spark of synapse in his mind. He wanted to be this person always, to feel this certainly about a desire to accomplish something. (Now it just sounds like therapy...)
There were different types of authors, just as there were different types of people. But anyone driven to create was driven to the point of obsession. The writer didn't believe that was something germinated in a lab and bottled into glass. People who didn't feel strongly were people who didn't create. He knew that without doubt, and so his frenzy to capture thought on wood didn't abate. Her sadness didn't faze him. Her sadness only served to inspire him more. How would he describe tears on her plain face? How would he explain the tremble of her lower lip?
His pen stopped. "You should find someone. Everyone needs to be touched." It was an honest opinion that hadn't been unstoppered at the beginning of the evening. She withdrew, and he pushed hair off his wet forehead. "Go find someone who can touch you," he told her. He had enough now. He had enough to spend the remainder of the evening immortalizing her. "If you find someone you can tell me the story later."