he downs the second bottle
of wine
and then curses the
beer for not
tasting as good
the rectangular desk before
him looks round
now
and his chair grows wheels
all the insects in the
apartment
crawl under the
clock on the wall
and spin the hands
backwards
lots of things are happening
but the
story before him doesn’t
write itself
The paper is still pale
the pen
still frozen
The next word will never come
out
let alone the next line
He leans back
and the demon calls from
the other side of the window
and tells him
to hurry up
“That’s not how
writing works,” he whispers back
But he doesn’t
know how
it works anymore
So he just stands
and walks to
the window
opens it
and answers
the call
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Daydreaming as a profession 