The writer knows not of your life.
He spends his hours unwisely, silently, pausing in caliginosity.
I ask him the time and he offers me no conclusion.
His hands tremble and his eyes are clouded, dulled by the constancy of studiousness.
A new word emerges like a lost leviathan amongst the pages.
It ignites a fantasy in his mind which burns long into a tropical night.
He absorbs it ravenously into himself and it sinks into the tar-pit of his vocabulary.
A fossilised monster, immortalised in it's struggle with death, vanishes downwards, slowly into the great abyss of the English tongue.