[PancakeBrah]

He wrote letters about no one, to no one.

Keeping time through pen strokes, John debates his crescendo
eating cooked lentils as he wears in grooves; his pace picks up tempo
walking by his bookshelves, all three replete with august tomes,
in his cluttered loft, peering over a street of marching drones.
They would never meet. He, too, enjoys a walk, but often alone
and he figures that’s one reason the critics so laud him for prose.
He does think it’s possible, though, that a more social milieu
wouldn’t too adversely change the current scope of his view,
but he writes as a contortionist. Twisting and distorting the truth,
sketching his characters, apart from the masses in his short little room.
It’s from this very boredom he drew.
So that wading idea is drowned out by thoughts of his plot,
as he sits back down at his oak desk, with more nuances to jot.
That’s where the trick lies. The nuance. The modus affectus.
Easy for him, a voyeur. Cardboard becomes potent reflection,
flesh on the page, from this emotive repressive alone at his desk with
a new group of ‘friends’ to be told, within the folds, interconnected.
Writing each in succession, an idea in his mind he had sized up
and with every word a small twinge of regret. He writes of...

...Alan, with the thick rimmed glasses. Dressed to the nines with no occassion.
Skinny tie. Quiet, a listener over drinks, with wine as his libation.
Judging type, with a put-off posture, barely lifting his eyes up
but still can’t hide the obsession he fosters for Eliza...

...Eliza, a weak drinker with a moral fiber that softens at night
Draped in choral patterns, with an aura like a beam, awkward and bright.
A dance in her lilt, care-free, living off of chance to the hilt
enchantress, playing tough to get with a voice like a sample of silk...

...and Tomas, with the build of a truck. Annoying, clueless.
Alpha. Brimming with enough confidence to not know he’s stupid.
And stupid enough not to notice proof he’s right getting played
when his girlfriend Eliza and Alan go on their nightly midnight escapes.

They live lifes in page, as he writes and waits. Paces between passages
to give each sentence weight. A city moves, except one escapism masochist.
He brews his caffeeine at eight. Creates another niche for Tomas,
a backstory for Alan. Crafting flaws and traits, new speech to flow off.
An entire history. The stroke of inspiration, writing through hundreds of looseleafs
No summary. Puncturing drama, a dozen thoughts running through loosely
all at once. He knows how painfully sad it is, whenever he laughs and cries
at his own figurines. But nothing could be closer, these newest passerby’s.
All caught in his mind. The freshest set of acquaintances he’s brought to ink,
doing as he thinks. Extolling his views on life in one night’s frothy blink.

As he finishes, he pushes the pages, wide as they’re thick,
aside. The clock shows three. He turns the light off with a click
as he we walks to his open window after leaving his desk
and looks down at the closing bar, with three of it’s guests
exiting. A girl, lithe, with two of her friends, laughing in spirits,
drunk, like every other Friday. He feels ill at ease with their passion, so near it.
In the midst of having the social life he never could, they climb in the back of a cab
as he goes to bed,
with mixed feelings, knowing he controls the lives he imagines they have.