He wanted guts, he wanted glory, but he never knew. The coffee spills on the yellow tainted pages, thinning away under generations of rough hands. Nothing could stop the pen from rushing over the blank spaces in the cracks, running, wandering, winding, losing itself in the jumble of words he wrote.
He was tired, exhausted, exhumed.
Imagine the world, living as one. Stuffy coffee joints, incense thick in the air. Art. People with tears threatening to spill from their weary eyes.
Maybe it was just him fighting it. Constantly.
YOU ARE READING
Essais
NonfiksiA collection of short things I've been writing for the past few years, just a couple of essays from the essence.
