Modern Age Writer

Sleep rubbed from the eyes. The clock ticked silently, the dull green light of its digital numbers illuminating the cluttered desk.

Papers crumpled into balls. Notes scattered nonsensically. Cups of coffee half drunk and as cold as the night air.

The desk chair felt beyond worn. A creak when leaned to the left. A wheel that would bow when leaned to the right. A chair that was battered and homely.

Another cup, brimming with chamomile tea, sat growing cold atop the open leather bound journal, scratched out words lit by the screen with an empty page.

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