Classic Writer

The music loud in his ears, he forced himself awake, refusing to sleep. The click, click, click, from his keyboard, the typing of a mad man. The burnt smell of cigarettes fill his room. The alcohol bottles that were once full now rest to intoxicate his blood. His eyes are heavy but he still types. Unknown to him that all he types is gibberish, words that only he can read, his masterpiece. He does not bother to move. He soils himself in his chair but does not know it. As the waste creeps down his leg he ends his tale. To us he is insane, writing nothing, but to him he is a genius, the next classic writer of his time.