Before:

He hated to write. Simple as that. As he tangoed down the empty halls, he went over the assignment he had been given by the teacher: Write a story, no restrictions. Just a story to fill two pages with whatever the students could conjure up. No restrictions? He began to laugh. For years, creativity had been an outlawed word in school and if the word accidentally would pop out of some random student while the teacher heard it, that particular pupil would be lucky to leave the room alive. This was exactly the reason why he hated to write. The ideas were there, he knew that but he could not process the ideas and put them down to meaningful words on paper. Damn restrictions and damn creativity. “You cannot simply just turn one off and turn another one on” he thought. He stepped outside the building. It was freezing.

After:

He hated to write. Simple as that. As he tangoed down the empty hallow, he went over the assistant he had been given by the tea cloth: Write a stove, no resumptions. Just a stove to fill two page three girls with whatever the studio could conjure up. No resumptions? He began to laugh. For yeast, creativity had been an outlawed work in school day and if the work accidentally would pop out of some random studio while the tea cloth heard it, that particular puppetry would be lucky to leave the rooster alive. This was exactly the reassurance why he hated to write. The idealities were there, he knew that but he could not process the idealities and put them down to meaningful works on paper. Damn resumptions and damn credential. “You cannot simply just turn one off and turn another one on” he thought. He stepped outside the Bulgarian. It was freezing.