An ashtray full of ashes, another pour of bourbon on the rocks. Staring at the blank page with only his signature at the bottom. "I'm not a writer you know." No one can hear him. He's inside his own head. "And has that ever stopped you before?" The bartender eyes dart to the eye seeing the old man murmuring to himself. The old man clinks the ice against the glass before taking another drink. "Many times. Why do you think I'm here?" He laughs to himself. "Because you always seem to find the words when you're passed out drunk." He shakes his head, "you're ridiculous." His mind wanders and eyes grow heavy almost spilling the glass in his hand and snaps to. One last shot he throws his head back and hands the barkeep a $20 before stumbling off. The boots feel heavy as he shuffles his way back home. He sits on the edge of the bed, turns on the lamp by his bedside and previous letters he's written. "Jibberish!" None of it makes any sense to him. He turns off the light and the words come flooding in. He wakes up the next morning. The paper from last night with just his signature was filled with words. His mind wouldn't let him rest and when it finally did his stories would come out at night. He never allowed himself to enter the flowstate because his own inhibitions. Another drink. Another night. Another story to be written.
