time versus talent

His failed marriage has left him with just enough money to purchase a typewriter, so he does.

His five hundred square feet studio apartment barely has room for the filing cabinet that his grandfather had left him, but it's his lifeline.

Inside, he stashes the breathings of his heart. (William Wordsworth would be pleased.)

But his writing is like holes punched onto carbon paper: useless, archaic. The more he stores, the less meaningful the content. He runs circles.

Hope keeps him at the brink of destruction. Maybe tomorrow, he thinks.

Maybe tomorrow will deliver the muse for his eventual masterpiece.