He has been reading, absorbing, the literary light from an age past, yet not one so far removed from his very own.
When, once again, ready to put his thoughts to paper, the writer shall do so, not with the puerile urgency of earlier days, but with a reserve and a deliberation more characteristic of his enlightened today. Levels of inspiration lowering degree by degree, he has been completely drained of any thought, any emotion, that would otherwise be siphoned from the mind's well of ink now stoppered. Such reflections and reveries must patiently await the gentle transfer to an empty page, given life, only then, by print.
Minus a clever mechanical facility, this man abandoned cannot prime the pump, get it chugging and, thus, replenish the mind's reservoir, which has been allowing only a trickle of scribbled mediocrity to escape sparingly. For that reason, the crestfallen writer will away to the pages of other writers' books in hopes of discovering a light to replace his own failed.