Work in progress

You sit

Surrounded by books

In a chair stained with coffee

Eyelids heavy with the weight of expectation

The floor around you, scattered with scrunched up paper

Signs of a fevered mind, the scribbles of ingenuity, exasperation

Three mugs perched on your desk holding the remnants of last night’s fuel

Yet your words are exhausted, there is but one solitary sentence

Jeering at you from the scraps of an old torn envelope

Your fingertips trace the ink’s indentation

Then you smile, contentedly

You sleep.


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