Gemotions

"No, no, that's not right," Mark muttered, his voice barely a whisper. He ripped the page from his typewriter, the paper tearing with a violent snap. The small room, usually a haven of creativity, now felt like a prison. He threw the crumpled paper into the overflowing wastebasket, the action failing to alleviate the growing tension in his chest. He grabbed a glass of water, his hand shaking so badly he spilled half of it on the floor. His eyes darted around the room, fixating on the dust motes dancing in the sunlight, a mocking reminder of the hours he had spent toiling away.