I am so alone that the walls have started to listen. They don’t answer, but they don’t leave either. That’s more than most people.
Then he wrote:
He stared at the last line. It was a lie. He couldn’t remember a good day. There were days that were less bad. Days where the landlord forgot to knock. Days where the corner store gave him credit. But a good day? That was a myth for people who believed in God or mutual funds. I am so alone that the walls have started to listen
He turned off the lamp. The room went dark. The cockroach remained where it was. And for the first time in years, Henry Chinaski closed his eyes without hoping for anything. Not the knock. Not the ring. Not the woman. Not the drink. Then he wrote: He stared at the last line
The poem read:
At 5:00 a.m., he sat back down at the typewriter. He pulled out the half-finished poem and crumpled it. Then he put in a fresh sheet. The paper was yellowed, soft with age, like a dead man’s skin. He rolled it into place. He stared at the blank space. There were days that were less bad