The writers, they sit in the corner, all cigarette smoke and emptying glasses. They are forever scratching out the hieroglyphs of another day, forever scratching out some meaning from the hours spent in want. Want, of home, comfort or human contact drives the need to communicate; communication is the esoteric urge of humanity at it’s nadir and it’s universal drive at it’s zenith. The tapping of cigarettes on ashtrays, scrawls on napkins, pens on notebooks, and the muted rhythm of life on the periphery.

And home, or the place where your bed lies, is the demon of editing yourself and the words you can no longer recognize as your own. Those flighty little beasts on the page births from the dual catalysts: aversion and contact. The blinking cursor, the mocking little arrow, and black highlighting to delete a moment no longer ingrained. Engraved memories relegated to the subconscious are the masters of this task. The slave drivers lashing out from a place you wish you had forgotten, or realized you never experienced. The words are the catharsis, allowing you to go out another day, scribble another line to populate the graveyards of bookshelves. Notebooks are the markers of your time, and sometimes you forget. Sometimes it’s just laughter and kicks in the corner. The bartender wishes you’d smoke more, try and conceal your area from the people recovering from a day of work, a day of paycheck hunting.

And the words will sit their lonely vigil, waiting for nothing in particular other than a vague sense of importance slipping through the veins of nicotine laden air, weaving the sense of community in a small corner.