Creation by fans of the game.

And one more little story. I wrote it a long time ago.
Canned Inspiration.
I pulled the door and opened the refrigerator, hoping to find something edible inside. My attention was caught by a tin can that I hadn't seen before. Reaching out, I took the can and, bringing it to my eyes, read the label: "Canned Inspiration." My first thought was: "They're mocking me, the sadists!"
It had been my long-held dream – the ability to preserve inspiration. Why? Very simple – I am a poet. Specifically, a beginning poet. And if the reader is also a poet, they will understand me. Now, surely everyone has been in this situation at least once in their life – you are sitting at your desk, pen and paper in hand, and a concept for a fresh poem is in your head. You've just written the first quatrain, everything is going well, and at that moment, the telephone rings. Cursing, you go to answer, and by the time you return, every trace of inspiration has vanished. And the writing of the poem is, at best, postponed, and at worst, finished. For inspiration is such a thing – one distraction, and it's gone. It was after one such call that the idea to preserve inspiration was born in me. Indeed, you sit there writing a poem, inspiration is everywhere. At that moment, someone calls and distracts you. Then it would be enough to simply take a jar and drive the inspiration into it. And later, when free time appears, open the jar, release the inspiration, and continue writing the next masterpiece. In this way, there would be no more failed poems written without inspiration. I shared my idea with my friends, but they took me for a madman. Since then, they have constantly joked about me. As soon as I appear, they immediately ask questions like: "Have you canned much inspiration?" or "Could you lend me a couple of cans of inspiration?". "Same this time," I thought, examining the can – "More stupid jokes." One last hope remained – that the can contained sprats in tomato sauce. I was very hungry and I opened the can. To my surprise, there was some kind of gray powder in the can. "Those sadists," I thought – "They could have put in regular canned food."
At that moment, I felt an unusually strong desire to write a new poem. So strong that my hands were practically itching. And since I am not my own enemy, I rushed to the desk, grabbed a pen, paper, and began to write very, very quickly, though I didn't even understand exactly what. Five minutes passed, and the masterpiece was ready. I leaned back in my chair and began to read:
The Bridge
A bridge over a river deep
Stands motionless and plain.
While I, with no peace to keep,
Seek the bridge to the stars in vain.
The bridge I sought through years of woe
Was there, but burned to ash and glow.
Rivers in silent waters flow.
Where the arrow used to fly,
Where the sword strikes the shield's light,
Where someone shook a spear on high –
In this land, death is not a fright;
The bridge to heaven was there, then gone.
And I – I am the last warrior.
All kinsmen to the stars have flown.
Now I am the Earth's master, alone.
Oh, brothers, why did you burn the bridge…
My first thought was: "Well, wow!? Five minutes, and such a piece! What has come over me?" Following that came another: "I always said I was a genius, but no one believed me. Let's see what they say now."
The inspiration left, and the hunger returned. Tossing aside the pen, I ran back to the kitchen. But as soon as I took the open can, the desire to write emerged again. "What kind of day is it today? No time to eat, inspiration just keeps pouring!" I thought. Running back to the room, I wrote the following:
The Horse
I am a dapple-gray horse,
Wandering the field at dawn.
And my mane, like a fire's course,
Trembles as the light wind is drawn.
In battle, the master was slain.
I raced faster than the wind's flight.
Bearing his shield, enduring the pain,
I raced through the day and through the night.
To lean now by a spring's clear glow
And greedily swallow the reflection.
And then, at a full gallop's flow,
Feeling neither whip nor spur's direction,
To burst under the blue canopy's light
And forget the battles, out of sight.
"I am a genius!" I shouted, and the echo of the empty apartment repeated: "Genius! Genius! Genius!" And I truly was a genius. At that moment. But hunger reminded me of itself again, and for the third time that day, I headed to the refrigerator. I picked up the can again, and inspiration came once more. Then I wondered: "Every time I pick up the can, I feel the urge to write. And the can says 'Canned Inspiration'. This means, it means… This really is canned inspiration!!! Someone managed to realize my dream." But I could not philosophize any longer; an irresistible force pulled me toward the paper. I ran to the room, but I took the can with me. On the run, I noticed that the contents of the can had diminished slightly. Placing the can before me, I began to write. This time I wrote without stopping, not lifting my head toward the can for a single minute. But I knew that with every piece written, the powder was disappearing…
On the second day, the can was empty. Inspiration left me. Before me lay a voluminous stack of written sheets. I sat and thought: "Finally, I will become famous. There are enough poems here for two or three collections. And I wrote them all, or… This isn't my can! Someone put their inspiration in my refrigerator. But who, who???"
Then I stood up, took the stack of sheets, went to the kitchen, and burned them on my gas stove. With every burning sheet, I moved further away from fame. When the last one burned, I was at an insurmountable distance from it.
Since then, I do not write poems, but sometimes I remember that can with the label: "Canned Inspiration"…