An empty room with dust-covered quills. The smell of aged lignin and cherry blossom petals exhaled into the walls. I find it's hard to write again with hands calloused from old age and apathy. The hiccup of an old phonograph reminds with deadly cheerfulness that the music has run out of notes. The words spill out from my temples, unmitigated, and onto the filthy floor. I don't need to examine them with my fingers to know that they sounded better in my head. A casual glance at the writing of younger men, is substance enough to forge those coffin nails.

11:31 p.m. - 2019-11-15