When silence was what he wanted, silence was what he got.
The man in the suit paced impatiently around the expensively furnished room, waiting for the servant to bring in the wine.

A faint knock on the door indicated the arrival of the alcohol. And only when the man was set, full glass in hand, book in the other and fitted into his comfortable armchair, the ancient butler left.

Our main character flipped carelessly through the pages, obviously searching for the point where he had left his story. Only when he reached the place he was looking for, it was blank.
This did not seem to suprise the man, since he just it propted on his lap, as it was perfectly normal. In fact, if that wasn't considered normal, then what happened next, was certanly beyond the abnormal.

One, two, three... words became sentences, that became pages full of text. Impasively the man read on, his face a rigid mask of concentration. In his mind the images flew and grew into life size expresions of reality. And it all had a papery tinge to it...