He pauses, laying his spectacles on the ornate table. His eyes sting
from working under the low light of a single candle. His back aches from
sitting in the equally ornate high back chair for too many hours.
He stands and walks the circumference of his writing table, arms
clutched across his chest. A stitch in his stomach reminds him he hasn’t eaten,
even a morsel, for the better part of the day.
He gently rubs the temples of his noble brow, arthritic hands working
the wrinkled flesh, to relieve the tympanic throbbing from the ideas and thoughts
that whirl in his mind like so many dancers at the ball.
With a deep sigh, he sits back down at the ornate writing table, replaces his spectacles,and takes pen in hand.Dipping the wick into the ink, like driving a needle into his vein, he delivers up his soul on the tattooed pages that lay open before him.
Artista di Parole