His typewriter had been broken for years and rusting on the desk, but he had not admitted to anyone, not even himself, that he didn’t miss it. He gave up hope on leading a decent life, and resigned himself to the fact that he was bound for life in a trailer park, a sink full of dishes, an unmade bed with crumpled stained sheets, a mutt tied to the bumper of his car barking at a pack of kids that tormented it all day. He bit down on his cheek, tasted blood. Wouldn’t he miss the trance of writing stream-of-consciousness at 3:00 am of vampires perched in trees, of fangs that punctured the night in a glint of ivory razor stainless steel? Beneath the moon he danced with spectral girls in virginal dresses, mud splashed on the pant leg of his white tux, blood splashed on the lapel like a lurid carnation. He laughed at the utter lack of stars on this clear night. Only a great void hung above him with its rogue moon. He danced a waltz to the music of undead orchestral players in the pit and laughed because madness brought with it courage. It was all over now. He’d go wherever life led him. Why waste another hour of his life trying to make sense of things? There was plenty of distraction on the television, and dishes to wash, and would somebody shut up that god damn dog!
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