The night flies swarmed around the lamp on the desk. The room was dimly lit. The leaky tap maintained a drip in the otherwise quiet night. The coffee was as cold as his feet.
The clouds rumbled... would it rain? He couldn’t afford to let his mind wander. He had to work. His family had left him. Only loneliness survived. He liked the loneliness, it helped, but the sadness did not.
Sheets of paper were scattered all over the desk. A bunch of typewriter ribbons occupied the corner. On the centre of the table stood an ancient machine, no wait, it wasn’t just an ordinary machine; it was a livelihood. It had been idle for sometime now.
He stared at the ceiling and sighed. His gaze shifted to the rusted old fan cloaked in cobwebs. Outside, the rain fell hard, washing away the unfairness of society, or at least he hoped it would. He got up and walked towards the cupboard, the only piece of furniture besides his table and his bed. He had decided.
***
His cheek rested on the tabletop. He stared unblinkingly at the last three words on his typewriter. In his right hand was a bottle of morphine. The dust swirled around the room as a gust of wind forced open a window. It settled on him, the man who was to become the greatest writer ever. But he will only be remembered as a dusty little man in a dusty little room.
The clouds rumbled... would it rain? He couldn’t afford to let his mind wander. He had to work. His family had left him. Only loneliness survived. He liked the loneliness, it helped, but the sadness did not.
Sheets of paper were scattered all over the desk. A bunch of typewriter ribbons occupied the corner. On the centre of the table stood an ancient machine, no wait, it wasn’t just an ordinary machine; it was a livelihood. It had been idle for sometime now.
He stared at the ceiling and sighed. His gaze shifted to the rusted old fan cloaked in cobwebs. Outside, the rain fell hard, washing away the unfairness of society, or at least he hoped it would. He got up and walked towards the cupboard, the only piece of furniture besides his table and his bed. He had decided.
***
His cheek rested on the tabletop. He stared unblinkingly at the last three words on his typewriter. In his right hand was a bottle of morphine. The dust swirled around the room as a gust of wind forced open a window. It settled on him, the man who was to become the greatest writer ever. But he will only be remembered as a dusty little man in a dusty little room.
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