He sits where he always sits. In the corner by the wall where he can sip his tea and watch the others play in their little arcade machines. He writes or else intends to write while he checks Facebook and his email until overcome by guilt he actually decides to write. He used to relish these moments, the arcade moments, his new found talent, they were easy afternoons full of artistic feeling and a new realm to dose of his vain. He was doing it. Finally doing it. But then life continues and the arcade became the office and writing, as all activity eventually becomes, his work. It was good wor...