He stood at the edge of the building, holding his spiral bound notebook in hand. He clicked a pen in the other hand, and though, he was there, threatening his very being, the words escaped him. They danced away like clouds, except when he looked up, there weren't any. He frowned, thanking God for further proving his point. No clouds, no rain, just a perfectly bright and sunny day.
He wondered if they would ask themselves why he decided to commit this heinous act. If they would ask themselves if they missed the signs, if they would replay the memories until they 'remembered' his misery. The misery that didn't exist, well, not in that way. Maybe he should leave a note, letting them know it was the only way he could save his sanity. But that would taint the precious whiteness of the paper, staining it with ink, and of course, it would give him the will to try another week. He shook his head, no, no letter then.
The traffic below had no idea what was about to hit them, he grinned slightly at the thought, a writer's deepest concern, will the plot twist be shocking enough? Will the readers have already guessed the ending? He guessed, after this hour, he would become the greatest writer to ever live, er, die. There was no underlying misery, nothing to make him do this. Just a sort of sick want for release.
He tossed the pen over the edge, the stupid thing never wrote anyway. He watched it fall to its demise, he hated the thing. He flipped through the empty sheets in his notebook, tossing it away as well. No matter how much ink he wasted, the paper wouldn't show the words. He glared, and though, it was all the items' fault, it wasn't, because honestly it was his brain malfunctioning. And when that happened, horrible things flooded his body; he wasted away his life, begging for another breath of air. It never came, because his heart didn't beat, his soul didn't dance, and his brain no longer imagined. Without those things, he was simply better off dead.
It had been a year, this wasn't spur of the moment or anything, and he was surprised he made it that far. He lost the ability so long ago, he forgot the sweet taste his mouth received when the ink finally showed, he even forgot the taste of ink, from when he would chew on the ends of his pen, contemplating the exact word to describe his feelings. He could only hope his ending would intrigue a young writer's beginning.
So, he turned his back to the traffic, inhaled deeply, and leaned back.