Discreet apocalypse: Prisons, a priest and magazines.

As a journalist, he felt like the archetypal abjurer.
The project was a complex one indeed. He seemed miles away from completion, stuck as he was in this sojourn of commissioned writing. He was taking way too long and not taking it too well - he wasn't the onlye one. He was integrating data, methods or methodologies, new and entire areas of vocabularies to translate. He had to comply with an ever-growing list of tedious constraints and was losing himself in an inferno of constant re-writing, which is another way of not writing at all. In short, it was no pushover.
It felt as if all purpose, his life itself, was cancelled. No, it was not easy.
“In a nutshell, not speaking can be explained this way.”, he thought. This doesn't make much sense at all.
His silence was a series of displacements: in other words, no answer to anyone.
Yet, he really hated writing for others: magazines, papers, even this fucking priest. He hated it with a passion.
The sheer force of his frustration was helpful though.