Notes scattered every which way, coffee-stained, cigarette-dusted notes, this man must have been a writer in the making, perhaps
Only ever used a certain kind of biro – Bic it seemed – cracked and half empty, many half full too, depending on his outlook, of course
A weak seat, nothing fancy, never enough money, either that or not enough of the high life instilled in him
Scribblings all over an ancient desk, green in real recognition, an original colour but far darker now, decades had undoubtedly taken the personality away, even if it still had on a frown
On the ground we see a stain, coffee most probably, I get to imagine him now, finally
An old man who wore socks only, no shoes, no such sign of tramplings on our way in, a pair of slacks maybe, owning only one pair
Demons, a few too many but he tried to steer it all in the right direction, through the vessel that was his pen, relatively stable, any more stable and he’d have been a rather bad writer
Far from it, scattered notes about to be preciously taken care of, dusted off ’til his words get read by millions, a posthumous award or three, carried aloft, a literary soldier who fought, sought for what he believed in

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