The midnight dabbler

The night guard stared out at the embering light of the fourth-floor apartment from his office. Like a moth to flame, he was hypnotized by the luminescence. ‘I wonder what they are doing,’ he thought to himself. Little did he know that it was the nightly ritual of an insomnolence, caffeine-overdosed literary-dabbler, with a penchant for writing short stories. In his bedroom, under the supervision of a hovering desk lamp, he scrawls incessantly in his red notebook of prose. Some nights it was magical. His pen would do the Tango with its shadow on the paper dance floor. With each beat of thought, the pen and the shadow would separate from their embrace and reunite, leaving behind a sinuous blue afterglow of their steps. They were adored by the spectators of stationary and books, who climbed on top of each other’s shoulder to get the best view. Their dance lasted usually for one hour, two if they were lucky. At the yawn of the literary-dabbler, they would bid adieu with a short kiss, period.

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