I scroll down the contacts in my phone at 2 am. My sleep has long abandoned me for good. The silky strands of moonlight comfort me no more.
My books are listless and move around all day vexing about my indifference to them. Magazines are sticky inside their plastic covers. The coffee mug is stained and looks like a murky battlefield with dead ants stuck inside for days on dried-up coffee.
If I stretch my foot and touch the cold floor, I can draw shapes on the thin layer of dust covering the floor. Newspapers have claimed the space under the door for their own and milkman has stopped ringing the bell.
Cold air seeps in through the crack in the window and settles down on the papers on my desk. I hope they find my note among all the rubbish which were once prized manuscripts. I scroll down the contacts in my phone before the battery sign winks one last time.
Note: Inspired by the story i read recently of a poor writer whose passion was so great that he kept on writing, shut inside his house, long after his money ran out. He was found dead weeks later clutching a wad of his work.