He glares into his PC monitor, eyes red and tired. He gives his all and fights through the lethargy that is pulling his last reserves of the imagination from him. He needs to do this, for a better future...because it's who he is. It's tough and sometimes the ideas are distantly extinct like a fossils slowly unearthing deep inside the writers mind. He views things as a people watcher, logging and always observing. He is silently nosey and at the same time respectful, he loses his ego to become a transport sponge so to carry his characters to his novel, or story. He writes in his blog questioning if anyone really cars or reads his work. It's good for him, self therapy. The journal keeps him venting and learning, past the iron gates of dimness he searches for a brighter tomorrow and survives outside of time and people. He walks among them but never really feels with them. Why is this? He is lazy but hard working. Another cup of tea passes his dry lips and tastes like luxury, caffeine fuels his journey into the midnight hour. His fingers begin to ache as he types what shoots through his mind, thoughts from anywhere speeding past like a runaway train. It's easier to write in the dark.
I can pluck the concepts more easily now, I check the time on the bottom right hand corner of my monitor.