Hands…bloodied and chapped by the winter and a dry perspective,
each keystroke is struck with cracked hands and a sullied soul.
His heart adulterated by his cynicism and acrimony,
each letter is cast in hopes of finding a happier place.
A place that doesn’t exist.
And, with each tap on the keys and bilateral railing of his lungs, his breath of hope escapes him
Walden, Nirvana, and God Himself cease to exist.
How could they, after all…
He doesn’t know what those places and faces look like.
Nor do they know him.
He takes a deep drag on his cigarette, laughs at his self-pity, and
blows away his life;
and the typing never ends.