Scrunched up papers fill the room, another bounces of the others and rolls to reach back to him instead. Words, having only half lives, soon find themselves struck and evicted along with countless others, struggling to hang on to his masterpiece. My sire is far too young blooded. Ruled by passion rather than experience. But who is to decide where a character has its origins from. Their attributes may arise from the personal pages of the authors life or from distressed neurons who wee themselves into shameful brilliance.
In the room, the bulbs glow in their forty watt glory, insects dance around it and when its time to kiss, they burn. The florid wallapaper holds on for dear life and the infirm floor creaks its aches and pains. An apple half eaten, bronzes away on the wooden table. The novel has converted him into a manic. His stomach filled with occasional sips of wine and his mind, tossing and turning in its rugose sheets. I pray for the day to come soon when the words THE END are written, for he shall then back return to normal.
*Inspired by Ellie Goulding's The Writer
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