The office chair lay empty, the keys on the laptop untouched. No sounds of furious tapping filled the room. Instead, the window was wide open, the wind blowing into the room, sending the curtains dancing about by the window frame.
Outside, the writer ran with a big net in one hand, suspended from a wooden hoop connected to a long handle. She leapt and strode amongst the tall grasses, sweeping the net in wide casts at the flight of butterflies swarming around the garden. Their backs were miniature works of art with each wing containing a scene, a character, a concept (abstract or concrete), an emotion. Each insect was a possibility, flying free.
In great swathes they were caught, and crammed handful over handful back into her head before she began swinging the net again. It was always a pain when they broke free.