Writer sips at the cup of tea, and looks across at Block.

Block's broad figure engulfs the expensive green armchair, and gulps hungrily at his drink.

"It's rather rude, y'know", Writer begins, "to simply invade my mind, and to force me to sit in silence with you."

"..."

"Would you please consider taking your leave? I am sick of this, I do not need you. I have work to do. Could you kindly, quite possibly, remove yourself?"

Block casually scratches at his stubble and leans towards Writer.

"You got an idea yet, mate?"

Writer closes their eyes.

"Fuck. You."