Peering out the window into the bright day, the smell of garbage and puke filled his nose.  He rubbed his nose and gagged.  On these early summer mornings, the humidity always made everything smell worse.  He now noticed his own stench too. 

Course, he didn't mind.  Weeks earlier, smelling his own body odor mingled with the whiskey, began to be his only constant.

His words and thoughts had become lost in an abyss of his own self disgust. Once lavish and exciting, now they mocked him and his lost eagerness. Only the smell of Jim Beam could entertain his tired mind. Motivation to walk to the liquor store or grocery, was severly undermined by his loathing of not only his condition, but that of the world and its tempest of corruption.

His time use to be spent researching and devouring any kind of prose, article, or even advertisement that titillated his need for validation. Validation as what?  A human being?  An artist? What drove him to think they had what he needed.  Curiously, his eye wonders to the bolded font on the inbox in his e-mail in front of him.

"I read what you wrote.  It might be cool to chat or something sometime.  Reply if you want."

Reply if you want, reply if you want.   The words filled his mind with something familiar.  Yes, he wanted the chance to say yes or no to someone's interest. 

There, someone was listening.  His sparatic sober thoughts, or he called them 'sober' were out there now.  Someone read them. 

After pulling out the huge sliver in his thumb which was lodged there from the cheap broom he used during his frantic night of addict cleaning (he certainly had more than one siren to prick at his dependancy) he meandered back to his desk; plopping down, he began to type.