The aroma of stale cigarettes and liquor lingers, papers bearing spilled ink clutter a mahogany desk and on top lies a pen, bleeding. The paper holds nothing of significance, only half written ideas and thoughts, ramblings of a broken man.
He sits as he has been for countless hours, runs a weary hand over his whiskers and loses himself in thought. He is frustrated, depressed. All he wants is to be able to communicate - express his emotions on paper - show the world that he is different. But all that manifests is drivel. Un-engrossing drivel.
He is a solemn man, introverted if you will. Everything he writes makes no sense to anybody else, they pretend they enjoy it; it makes sense to him, but behind his back they mock and laugh. He knows they do. He pictures them, in exactly the same way they satirize others to him, they ridicule what he writes to their friends. He is a joke. His most intimate idea’s, the core of his being, nothing but a joke. They don’t understand. Or is it he who does not understand?
He has a gulp of whiskey and lights another cigarette.