Something wakes his eyes; he’s been hanging with insomnia three weeks now. The place smells all the way from the kitchen and the telly screen’s frozen. His only light. He smiles, reaching for the rolled Western Virginia. Addiction – the only thing that keeps his mind ticking over. It’s 3:00 a.m. and he’s about to write. Whatever he can. To stop himself hating it anymore he’s decided to bargain with himself – tell himself it’s all building to something. Something crazy kinds of special. The lampshade is cracked on the floor because he smashed it when he got angry. He lights his smoke and fumbles to the door. Sweet, untouched air. Three drags and one humongous intake of nostril-chilling air. He’s been crying in his sleep again. Crying because his dreams bring with them the stories he can’t quite write whenever he’s awake, alive, whatever. Fuck.
She sits up and smiles that shit, painted upon one, looks at him and closes her eyes. Once so handsome, her everything, now but a failed wish. She gets up, walks on over in her naked splendour and wraps her arms round him. ” I swear to you,” He coughs. “that story will get written, hun.” She knows it will, knows it’s probably been written already just the damn thing’s stuck in his head. “I can’t get it out. “

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