Sitting in a small, dim place they call the "Shack." With a cuppa. Hearing the old band play. I've chosen a small corner where the light barely fingers the table. Luckily there is one left because all the other corners are taken. It's a personal preference, not because I like the dark nor do I dislike it, but because I've been exposed to too much light from constantly pooring out my prwoetics (prosaic/poetic+woes) to a electronic entity capable of word processing. My eyes need a rest. And the man fingering the guitar hums a tune without words. I like his song. It's not quite bad.

I brought a book, but it wouldn't do me any good right now. Usually I like reading but I’m not in the mood, so my ears are the only things that’ll take in wisps of mental food for thought. I need it. I need to write too, but I forgot some parchment and a pen. Wait, there’s a pad of notepaper in my satchel. Rummaging around has earned me a small pencil lacking an eraser.

“I need my laptop, darnit.” Thoughts overflow. Oh, here they come…

Listlessly I draw. Doodle is more like it. Slowly, the raging river of words flow into a calmer inlet. A stream of thought flows gently from my brain, through my neural passages and into the lumpy digits I call fingers. Lines form letters and letters form words, which in turn form sentences and a trail of scribble. Need to correct that grammar there; it won’t do me any good to get used to trying to defy the laws of grammar [heh, my prose is hypocritical; it’s going rebel on me right now]. Changing it to cursive now, and back to something unlike a sloppy, thin, wet noodle.

The guitar is slowly fading away now. Gee, it's closing time. I like that song. "You don't have to go home but you can't stay here." If I had my own set of strings I'd play it right now only to yearn for a good pair of lungs to accompany me. Whatever, I'm getting tired.

It's been over an hour already. Getting up, I courteously brush off bits of invisible dust from my table, ironically thinking that I'd help the keeper tidy up a bit with my lack of tipping. Looking down, I notice my paper is dirty. Further observation allows me to deduct that my fingers also have been branded with the guilt of listlessly drawing and writing with a soft-lead pencil on a small sheet of notepaper.