It pays to write

Reconnecting

There was no one around. The weather was dark, inviting many poetic thoughts of what could or couldn't be outside.

The proprietor of the abode sat at a desk, writing. Writing was a career that was very popular nowadays. People found out they enjoyed reading, and the career proved quite lucrative. Writers were some of the most celebrated figures in society.

So everyone tried their hand at writing, to make it rich. Never in history had writing proven so lucrative, in a society such as this.

People loved the written word. It gave them more time to think before a response and more ways to conceal their intentions.

Our proprietor engaged in poetry. Never was it more apparent that writing could be a lucrative career. Poetry afforded an outlet not like any other. The most successful found their exhalation in written expression.

The poetry lacked an active motion. The proprietor got out for a walk, the darkness hiding a rather surprising warmth that fit its solitude.

Then the proprietor found a hanging sign, blocks away. It marked the residence of a writing club. He decided to return later.

The proprietor preferred to go nameless in society and would take pains not to be introduced.

He walked to a coffee shop. He felt that he was born in an era that didn't belong to him. No, that couldn't be it either, only for the sake of argument. All the writing made cheery analysts of people.

He sat down in the coffee shop, ordering nothing. He hadn't given notice to his attire, he was dressed not shabbily but unkempt.