The Writer

A Story by Dan Breen

Something.

No one loves a writer. The writer does not love the writer.
A while ago, when too many things were beautiful, I heard of a man who loved to write and hated to live. He had promised himself one whiskey-hazed night that he would write a book, and that when he wrote The End, he would bind the pages and hold the book in his arms as he jumped off the local bridge.
He wrote for a while; he wrote of long nights and smoke-filled rooms, time spent alone and short winter days.
The poor b*****d must have been a coward, because he’s never stopped writing. Every day he adds something. It’s all nonsense now, but he’s still breathing and he’s still making something.
He’s written so much that the weight of his creation could very well make his chest cave in, but he continues to waste ink just to keep himself afloat. This is what he calls happiness.