The woman wrote feverishly by the light of the stale office lights. Never had she had so much to say, so much to work with. Usually, her mind went blank with each new request or demand. Write this, write that. Not tonight. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, her heartbeat racing them throughout the hours. How had she never had such a brilliant idea?
This was the only thought present in her mind other than the idea itself. She should have thought of this, not her client. Home was forgotten, and even the office became a nagging thought rather than a reality. Ideas sprawled across her page, entire cities and cultures of thought lived their lives and died of plot holes and logical fallacies in her frantic ramblings.
Now her thoughts had civil wars, fighting their way to a clear claim, only to find that their utopia was flawed and needed another uprising. Now her thoughts ran ahead of her fingers and were forced to backtrack to make sure they could be understood. Throughout all this, the voice of the client filtered its way into her mind, asking the same question. That question. That simple but ever so intriguing question. Her fingers raced faster. How? How had she never thought of it? The clock on the wall, usually so very eagerly watched, felt the lack of attention and seemed to tick louder, but its efforts had no effect, except maybe to spur the woman on. Faster, faster. More ideas spewed out of her fingers and more complications and beautiful facets of the question presented themselves. So much to say, and all from one question. Just one question.