The page waited, anxiously to be covered with words. It was blank, white and ready to be painted with prepositions, splattered with sentences, rouged with a rough draft fueled by artistic passion.

The page waited and waited, dreaming of what it would become. Would it become a magnum opus of class oppression? A farce that frothed with humor? A declaration of love, a binding contract, a strongly worded letter, a poem, a sign, what would it become? So full of potential was the beaming blank page, it was absolutely perspirative with anxiety. Though brimming with yearning to be decorated, the page said nothing. It sat patiently, quietly awaiting the author’s artistry.

The blank page would sit in anxiety, however, while the television entertained the author. And the cellphone blinked notifications at the author. And the snacks were gobbled, and the walks taken, and the drinks imbibed, and all the other distractions did their jobs of pulling the author away from the page. That eternally excited, eager blank page.