He opened the book, slowly as his finger grazed the delicate pages.
Holding the pen tightly, gripping it either side, the tip floating above the paper.
Hitting hard and fast. Like nothing before him, that moment of nothingness.
He felt nothing, saw nothing, thought nothing. Everything evaporated in his mind, he was floating in mid air, in the vast vacuum rippling across the emptiness.
Hesitation got the worst of him.
Holding the pen, gripping it tighter the tip now pressing against the sacred notebook, those delicate pages.
He noticed the ink, the pressing hard on the pages caused it to spill out, into a small black pool.
Hitting him harder than before, he realised and noticed something. A way out.
His pen started scribbling, writing everything he could as words transpired before him.
Help had come to him in the form of a story and a pool of ink.