He looks up from the table for a moment, seeking inspiration, gazing out towards the sky.
White, powdery flakes dance before his eyes. It's snowing, he realises. When did it start? He goes over to the window, looks down at the street. Snow covers the grass verges like foam on a beard and the road has turned a slushy white. True, it's a heavy fall. But still, it must have been snowing for twenty minutes, maybe more. And he never even noticed.
It frightens him that this could happen. That on an day of such ordinary promise the atmosphere of his luck could change, that somewhere a line could be crossed and his world could turn blank. That calamity could come upon him unheralded, even unheard. That forgetfulness could fall from the sky even as his back was turned, erasing every colour, concealing every road.
He draws the curtain, switches on the light, goes back to work. But he can sense the fear settling over him; he can feel the silence fall.