When I read Sol's journal, I immediately had this great idea for a story. It was supposed to be about this miracle maker who never makes any miracles. He has all the power in the world, yet he abstains from using it. If he only wanted to, he could make the whole world a better place at the blink of an eye -- yet he doesn't use these powers he has and lives an ordinary life in an ordinary house. From the outside, his life looks very dull and grey. He never does anything out of the ordinary. In the end, he dies, alone, without committing a single miracle.
I was so excited! For weeks, I had not come up with a single story, not even the tiniest one, but now, I had this great idea! It was such a great idea that I could actually turn it into a novel if I wanted to! A whole novel -- I had never actually written a story longer than six or seven pages! And now, I was ready to write a novel! Is that a miracle or what?
All excited, I fired up my text editor and started to write. "There once was a man..." I wrote, but then stopped. I couldn't think of a single word to add. What else was there to say besides this? He was, after all, this perfectly ordinary man who never did anything out of the ordinary. But if he never did anything out of the ordinary and never committed a single miracle, then why are we calling him a miracle maker?
I tried hard to stop thinking about this. Surely, there must have been a way for me to indicate that this man was actually a miracle maker who just happens to make not a single miracle in his whole life? But it was too late. I kept arguing about this with myself, on and on, on and on, until I got too tired to write anything. So I closed the text editor without saving my work and went to bed.
When I woke up the next morning, I found a dead miracle maker lying in my bed.