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He does not know where he is going.
The room smells of burnt toast and runny eggs,
Half-baked ideas still cooking in the oven,
And unfinished dreams
Scribbled on white lined papers that litter the floor.
His eyes stare into the distance
Not seeing far-off vistas,
Only the snowy blur of his battered TV set.
Instinctively, he reaches for the needle at his side,
Knowing that the liquid pleasures inside can take him
From the reality he cannot change.
Instead, flesh finds wood, and his hand clenches
Around that cylindrical rod of graphite and potential.
He remembers how it used to feel
To write.
And for the first time in months,
He stares out of his window and sees
Into New York’s midnight festivities,
Hills that gently roll,
A moonlit canal in Venice,
A hand that beckons.
He places pencil to paper, knowing where he is going.

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