Her hands are folded neatly
No tears do her eyes shed
A small smile graces her pale face
Content, at peace -- she is dead

His forlorn, regretful eyes meet my own.

"It's you..." He murmurs, disbelieving. The light's faded from his blue orbs as he looks at me helplessly, lost.

"It's me." I choke out.

"Orpheus." I whisper, words laced with fear, shock, and desperation. 
His voice cracks, filled with sorrow and love, "Eurydice-" 

He ran into my knife. Thrice.

He stood on the platform, suit wrinkled, foot tapping, hand running through hair, checking his watch -- waiting for a train that would never come.

He stands in the dark
Alone, abandoned, waiting 
But nobody comes

The moon shines on him
Brilliant, bright, unforgiving
Wasting its light on --

Shadow. A shadow.
Shunned and rejected by man
Abandoned by fate 

He opens his mouth
No sound comes -- his throat is dry
Then he speaks -- three words:
 
"Lord, help me" he cries
Alone, abandoned, waiting
And Somebody comes--

WriteWorks Inc.
Planet Earth
Solar System
 
To Whom it may Concern:

I recently purchased your product, "Inspiration Kit", from your company WriteWorks Inc. 

Your website boasts that the kit, which is the first of its kind, will inspire me to write. As an aspiring writer, this seemed very promising indeed.

However, I have found the contents of the kit you sent me to have quite the opposite effect instead. 

It comprised of your "Set Aside Time," "Just Write," and...

Sometimes, he wanted to disappear. To run away from society’s unrealistic expectations; to vanish into the blue. He’d join a monastery, perhaps, or become a hermit.

Now he stood in front of the refreshments stand, drink in hand, as a nobleman raved on about some taxation law that his father had passed. 

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, wishing for the umpteenth time that the ground would swallow him up. 

He excused himself, walking away. The crowd...