Ryhain sighed. 

Here he was, writing this book, about his life, in "realtime," and yet he just, could not, fathom, any wits (that could be anywhere else in that realm) to finish a proper chapter.

"The Disorder," they called it.

            The Disorder was indeed a devil of its time. Ryhain knew that all too well. He proceeded to write those very words onto the page. It would be a book about his life, but through metaphor. He paused to dwell upon the Disorder, and then realized and wrote that it was the label those disdainful for ideas projected upon those in love with ideas. And that was precisely why he felt inclined to begin, or arguably resume, writing this book, because of a book's power to capture writing and writing's power to capture ideas. But all that ideal glory unexpectedly shattered when he heard a sharp knock upon his door.

            "YEAH?"