He sat at his desk; fingers twitching, waiting for a gust to propel them to craft something great upon the screen out of the pathetic keys that laid before him. 

But nothing came. That is, except the deadline, dread, depression, and despair that ever haunted his headspace. Palms braced brow as tears pooled. He had nothing to say which had not been said before by poets, prophets, and polymaths more prominent than he.

Then it came; his emptiness the catalyst for some higher greatness. His broken state became a conduit of grace. Fingers flicked as thoughts flowed. His realized depravity became a means of redeemed creativity.