A bottle of whiskey and a cartridge of ink

Based on a true story.

''It's late,'' he mutters under his caffeinated breath.

The howling night sighs along with him, carrying winter in it's course. The wind seems to seep through the window's glass, threatening to extinguish the few candles that dimly light the living room, but he does not seem to mind. Despite the cold numbing his bones, his pen-crooked fingers keep dancing on the typewriter in salves of alphabetical charleston, filling the room with a symphony of words who sing an ode to his dearest muse.

Of woodland touch and elvish grace,

''No. No. That's not right...'' His hands brutally stop, mid-chorus - the harmony is broken. Midnight strikes, but he oblivious to time and it's damages. The night can stop here, for all he knows and cares. Time can stop for her.

How I long for her embrace,

''That's... not it.'' He throws his head backwards, and the wooden chair creaks under the effort. To him, the smell of ink is the smell of her breath, and her skin has the softness of yellowed paper. In the darkness of the room, every shadow reminds him of her.

In endless strings of ink tear-dried,

Running his weathered fingers through his salt and pepper hair, another sigh escapes his thin lips, followed by an angered growl. ''Why... Why is it that I cannot write you?''

I try to grasp what in her eyes

''What is it about you that... haunts me...?''

shows me eternity.

He abruptly opens the drawer of his mahogany desk, and takes out a flask of whiskey from which he takes a long sip. His autumn eyes close, and his smile seems painful - it draws wrinkles in his otherwise ageless face, distorting it in a snarl.

''I hate you. I hate you, because without you I am nothing.''

I try, under a cloak sewn in lies, to pretend amity.

''I am the desert and you are an oasis. A mirage. An illusion that I am not completely empty. You... You slip between my fingers. Any breath smudges you from my ink. I am the dead, cold winter, and you... You are spring. Radiant, flourishing. The hope that keeps snow sparrows living. And I... I am cold.''

And hoping in another life

''You thaw my heart, but I'm afraid even forget-me-not's can't push through the snow. Oh, how you will be my ruin, my damnation. My beautiful, my ever-beloved ruin.''

that you may write of me.