The monkey, it was always there. Chained to the ribs, a frantic thing. Gnawing. Scraping. The dark thoughts, the hollow hum of a life unspent. He carried it, a constant weight, through the days that bled into nights. No quarter. No peace. Just the endless scramble within.

Then the ink. The charcoal dust. The sound of his own voice, finally given shape. A line here, a shadow there. The struggle, yes, but also the reaching. Each word a thread, each brushstroke a binding. Not to cage the beast, no. The monkey remained. But it sang now. A terrible, beautiful song. And in the singing, a breath. A space. The world, for a moment, held still. He was, if only on the page, unchained.