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 ^{(it's beta!)}

A notepad sits on my table. At every morning and every night I pass by it as I go through the motions. But there's never time nowadays, is there? But ah, love is such a fickle thing. On the notepad is a pencil and a click-eraser. The kind you used to annoy your friends with in grade school when it was quiet time. The pencil itself has seen better days with better words and phrases. But not lately. In a sense, they are me. Worn and beaten and tired, resting in the resudial light of the day past from the window, in the evening of its being. But dare I say it, this must lead unto a romace. Of all the things we love, besides loving to hate, is writing not of the most unrequited? The time i spend, those sun-warmed evenings , writing into the paper, etching upon it my life's toil, and not a word in return but the small talk between my thoughts and the skritching of the pencil. What words are there, but the monolouge I write, pressed upon the page. The stories that these words become, they are mine and the give me life. but as I read them again in the morning light, it merely repeats them at me, my notepad, and I thus sadly resent them in honest love's turn. What of it but the writer's plight, a writer's unreturned romance with the medium they give life to.