Books on shelves. Paintings on walls. Framed drawings sitting on the floor. A cat drinks water and then prances over to him. He strokes the animal and says, good boy. A bird in a cage chirps. Whistling a song. The cat pays no attention.

Tennessee Pine is the candle on his desk. He lights it. His apartment now smells like the woods in the South where he grew up. Pines, oaks, hickory, tall grass you could suck on, a stream running over rocks, all part of a childhood. He played there every day. Make believe games with himself. Pretended he was a soldier fighting in a war. Saw imaginary choppers flying over head. Spraying the woods with bullets. Crawling through brown leaves on his belly. A toy gun in his hands.

The cat jumped off his lap. The canary continued to sing. He pulled down a book from his collection. It was Kerouac’s On The Road; the first novel he ever read. The old man used it to map his adventures when he was younger; living in New York City, taking a bus to Chicago, hitchhiking to San Francisco. Making friends along the way, true companions for a short time, then leaving them behind, never seeing them again. Taking odd jobs to make ends meet. Writing the whole time. Stacks and stacks of notebooks piled on the floor of his apartment. Wild manic tales. Blue stories of loneliness. The sacrifices of an artist.

El Gato is drinking from his bowl again. The yellow canary is quiet now. And he sits at the typewriter. Nothing comes out.