by the time she was done rolling that cigarette it looked like a broken, gnarly twig regardless, she put it between her lips, lit a piece of nacho on fire and used that to light the cigarette and then just watched the nacho burn until the flames reached her fingers “Do you remember when dreams used to have colors?” she asked “Color?” he said, and thought about it. “Yeah, it was back in the days when I was a kid and movies were black and white.” She watched him through a veil of smoke that she thickened by blowing some more. “Wow, you’re, like, old as fuck then.” “Old enough to know there were better times, dear. Way better times. When dreams had color and sound…” “Listen,” she said, “is this a rant on technology and how it fucks our minds an’ all that?” “What? Not at all. I mean…
this was needed
One more
strong coffee
one more
poem
and then he
would go to
sleep
it was
almost morning
he would sleep
during the day
and
return the next
night
to write
more poems
His lower back
was hurting
It was either the
kidney stones
or
the hemorrhoids
or both
or something entirely
new
Well,
it was all right
A writer writes
and a sick man
suffers
and they are quite
the same
At 44
his wife was 22
years younger than him
She would still
make him coffee
and cook his meals
and even read his poems
The ones that weren’t
about torturing
and murdering women and
children
even got published online
About eleven
of them
He was on
the right path
Success will reach him
earlier than
death will
It was a matter of
days for
both
he did have a dream of becoming a writer in his youth but youth doesn’t last forever One day he grew up and had to pick a real job. He studied journalism and became a reporter It was today’s task that reminded him of the old dream. He had to interview unpublished writers A lot of them and the general question was “Why do you write?” The answers he got were quite diverse “I don’t know,” said one writer. “I’m just trying to recapture the feeling I had in childhood when my mother used to beat me until I fell unconscious and dreamed that she loved me.” And another said, “I’m not sure. I just write because I can’t do anything else in life.” Another said, “I’m still trying to write the perfect suicide note to leave behind. I swear to God, I will not kill myself until I write…
Daydreaming as a profession 