It is five thirty four on an early spring morning. The smoke of my cigarette surrounds me in a peaceful cloud, but not without a slight cough. The wind is moving fast through the trees, you can hear there shake with a chill. While the fireplace sit cold with wood that hasn’t been set ablaze for many many years.

The clocks nailed to the wall with an iron splint, ticks and tocks without any relief. The chandelier that hangs above me sways with cob webs clinging to it’s bronze exterior. But I can’t help but feel alone. Surrounded with all my simple pleasures and still my heart is not satisfied. It craves more,more,more without remorse. My eyes are weighed down by worried dark rings, which I can’t seem to shake off. Books line my shelves with busted spines from relentless searching for the next word to hang on to. As long as there are ashes in this damn glass ash tray, there will still be words on this paper. Not for you but for me. Justis something of a glimpse.