Namjoon's eyes are dazed over, his head hanging heavily from where his neck connects to the rest of his body and hands grazing over every last bit of the keyboard right in front of him. He's been staying up late until the break of dawn every day for the past week to compose more songs. He wanted to do more than he was asked for by the company. He wanted to impress them, to impress everybody else with the determination and skills that he was willing to bring to the game. Even the thought of having a solo album scared the wits out of Namjoon but excited him at the same time. And in order to show that he's worthy of something like that Namjoon wanted recognition, he wanted to show that he's worth it and that he'll be more than capable of doing it. And when inspiration hits him, Namjoon's hand never stops writing and everything just pours out. He never holds anything in, not even one bit. Even bad lyrics are lyrics. You can always alternate them later on. It's the fact that an artist pours everything from his soul into their notepad that Namjoon thinks differ a real rapper from a fake one. But lately, inspiration's been running short on him and Namjoon found himself slumped in his chair, waiting for a sentence, a word, a syllable, just something. But it never comes. He sighed heavily and dug through his pencil case to find a sharpener. All the scribbles on the notepad were slowly turning into wiggles and worms running on the page mocking Namjoon about how he can't even come up with new ideas or concepts. Maybe he's becoming empty. Like a movie no one wants to go see anymore, a scratched record that keeps repeating itself over and over again, a dish made one too many times to the point that you're sick of it. Maybe Namjoon was getting old. He laughed into his hands at the silliness of his thoughts and crashed his head on the table. At this point Namjoon just wanted to go to sleep and forget about everything in the present.