Stuck in my head

He sits at his study, thinking of what to write. He pours another half glass of whisky. It's beginning to warm from the temperature. He wished he had ice left. Each sip lands in his stomach like a big 'fuck you'. He deson't know what to write, who to write about, or for. Pointless writing for himself when he has started to see the world so bleak.

Bah, a childrens author, what was he thinking? Write one novel poem, and people label you this and that. Never mind the thousands of short storys he's written which are now nothing more then kindling.
The thoughts swirl in his head. He tries to combine them all. Finding rhymes, dreaming of pictures, but every rhyme and every picture is as bleak and dark as the next.
It no longers seems the ideas are swriling, but rather he is. He takes another sip of warm vodka. This time he practically hears plonk in his gut. It smashes his stomach. Alcohol. His last source. To drink his problems away. It won't work. It. Never. Does.


I was drinking hot tap water and this kind of, formed. Not sure what it means, maybe it just gave me the comparison to vodka. idk. I've been up 23 hours, with still more to come. I almost kept writing the story then. And I keep mispelling words. This isn't going to twitter. This is mine. If someone stumbles upon it, so be it.