And he sat in the Central Library typing away like a mad man struck by the holy ghost. Words just came to him, nothing complex. Perhaps that was the beauty of it all; simplicity.

He was always writing about leaving, running away, far away from home. The middle aged man wanted to go East, then maybe South, he thought about the West coast and the mountains of Montana. Didn’t want to take much with him, just a few books, some old jeans, work boots that would last in the sun. Wanted to walk from one place to another just living off the land. Berries, nuts, vegetables stolen from a garden in the middle of the night. The skinny man didn’t need much; his addictions had long since passed.

In the summer time he’d go down by streams and rivers where the waters washed him clean. It was his hope to one day be pure. Pure physically, spiritually, have a mind that was focused on words. Thoughts of the story he was writing and then the one after that. Let the words wash over him like the waters. Purify the soul.

But, it’s hard to be pure in America. The constant temptations of neon signs, the glare of a television at four in the morning, the internet with little to offer on a phone that cost $50 a month.

He gave it all up. Now he sits in the Central Library of a small town in America working feverishly on a book that will never be bought, sold, or read. He will leave it behind the same way he’s left all his belongings. Nothing to gain in this world. Nothing to gain.