"What happened?" Calli asks, breathing heavily, her right hand vigorously rubbing under her skirt.
"What happened is very simple," Jack says. "I do not want to end up like that young Frenchman."
"Why don't you end it?" She asks, sounding almost in pain.
He smiles and casually takes the cigarette pack from her pocket.
"I figured something out. The Muse does not only inspire us, she needs us. We are her... drug of choice. She finds the freshest cut ideas, the greatest processed and treated thoughts, and she sniffs them up, she injects them into herself. Then she leaves, leaving us a dry husk with our greatest creation behind us, ourselves addicted to inspiration that is no longer there."
"How... does... it... end?" She moans, her fingers rubbing quicker.
"So how does one keep this crack whore of creativity loyal to your needle?" He smiles a little sadistically, letting out two jets of smoke from his nose. "You plunge the needle into her vein," he rustles the written pages before him, "but don't press the plunger." He throws the pencil out of the window where it is quickly swallowed by snow. "That's what the ellipses are, the unfinished creation. And then you got her. She's yours for life."
"Tell me how it ends, motherfucker!" She screams, insanity in her eyes, spit flying at his face.