[ WP ] You 've been reading a chapter of a book before bed every day for years now . You 're beginning to suspect that it does n't end .

Pushing aside a pile of discarded papers, Roy lay on his bed waiting for inspiration to hit him. 
 
 Looking at the thousands of pages surrounding him he contemplated the value of his work. 
 
 `` 20 years,'' he whispers. 
 
 Starting in his youth, Roy set out to write a novel that would truly sum up everything he felt about life. The ennui of the everyday, the joy of creation. The problem though is his life kept changing and his views on the world with it. Rifling through a stock of papers he finds a pile from around Chapter 52. 
 
 He reads aloud. 
 
'He never truly gained any insight from the loss of his love other than he could feel pain and plenty of it...' 
 
 `` Ah,'' he thought. 
 
 `` This was after the divorce.'' 
 
 He thought back on that time in his life and relived the feelings. He still does n't understand why his wife never supported his work or why she felt him committing to writing full time was a mistake. She will see though. The importance of this work was too great to not be seen. 
 
 Inspiration was lacking tonight. The protagonist in his story had reached a crossroads he could n't resolve. On one hand the character could break free of his self inflicted exile to go back to his true love but on the other hand would that lead to an authentic happy, ending. He read through the last chapter repeatedly hoping to find a glimmer of insight. He could feel the climax in his bones. He was nearing the conclusion of his work of genius. But it would have to wait. He felt a heavy tiredness drape over him as he clung to the pages. 
 
 Weeks pass and Roy has not moved from his bed. He has n't stirred at all. A figure in uniform enters his room and inspects the scene. 
 
 `` One male, deceased. Likely here for a long time. Nothing unusual other than large amounts of blank, white paper around the body.''
