I do all my writing after midnight

Made this up on the fly, doesn't really go anywhere, but I've learned to publish everything I write, whether its ever read or not.

A man sat in front of his computer that was on his stock wooden desk, that was in his poorly lit room, that was at the back corner of his parents house, which was located in the rural areas of Orange in California.

Let's call the man Frank.

The time was eleven fourty-nine, on the seventeenth of January, 2014, Frank was a thirty-one year old amateur poet that worked part time at the gas station in town and at that very moment in time, as he continued to glance at the digital clock in the bottom right corner of his screen, he began to wonder what he was doing with his life.

Frank was a fairly average looking man, he had ruffled brown hair and a crooked nose from a bar fight from a few years ago - he had noticeable bags under his eyes, and he was a rather large man, in both height and width. He was not completely unattractive, he had managed a handful of girlfriends over the years, most of which left him for the same stupid reason - stuck at a dead end job chasing a dream that inevitably failed him.

You see for his problem - though he aspired to be a successful poet - he only ever managed to write properly after the stroke of midnight. A difficult situation to be in, seems he worked from 6-12 for five days a week and the only window of opportunity came on weekends, when he could stay up as long as he liked and come up with an abundant of ideas.

Unfortunately for Frank, come Sunday evening every week, just as an idea is blossoming, his mother or father would knock on his door and insist he went to bed. It was a vicious cycle, one that had repeated on and off for five years - but tonight, tonight was different.

After pulling many strings at work which involved him washing the owners car every weekend for six months when he returned, he had managed to earn himself a fortnights vacation - fully paid - and he had set himself a few goals to go along the way, which he had jotted down on a notepad that currently sat by his elbow.

He was going to strike gold with his next poem, he could feel it - so as he looked back toward the digital clock in the bottom right corner of his computer monitor, and saw that it was 11:59PM, he felt himself literally lift from his chair in elation.

But, alas, midnight came and went, and poor Frank felt his stomach drop, as though he missed a step going downstairs. His fingers continued to hover lightly over the keyboard, but no words came to him - at least, no words that made coherent sense let alone ones that rhymed.

Frank began to shudder in frustration, as though years of work had suddenly gone down the drain - he was filthy with himself, as he watched that digital clock in the corner tick the minutes by as though they were seconds, and still his page continued to stay blank.

He tried to look over old notes, maybe searching for that one keystone he may have overlooked - but still no good - and no matter what he tried to do, whether it was pace his room or drink a glass of milk, the answers never came to him.

And so by the time that stupid, digital clock on his computer said 4am, and he could hear the dulcet tones of birds waking outside, and the distant rumbling of car engines, he eventually had to succumb to the fact that it was no use and he gave up.

Frank usually did his writing after midnight, but not this night.

The End

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