As read by....
|Sir David Attenborough|
The lonely writer starts his day much the same way everyday: Sprawled naked atop a keyboard. As his slumber is broken, he tries to stretch out his weary bones, foiled once again by old age creeping in.
He growls at no one, and nothing, in particular.
He removes the latent Snickers wrapper from his face.
The first port of call of the Lonely Writer, as with all other species, is sustenance. He pads naked throughout his territory, scared and confused by the early morning sunlight, in search of his primordial desire: Coffee.
At first confused by the complex machinery required to complete the task at hand, the Lonely Writer soon grunts in pleasure after pushing the right button to start the 'coffee maker'. Sometimes this is instinct, sometimes luck.
Realizing his cold nakedness, he stumbles to another part of his territory in search of warmth, ascertaining the suitability of which animal hide to wear, by smell.
|The complex 'coffee maker'|
Having adorned the animal hides least likely to attract attention, the Lonely Writer can now settle for his coffee, indicated as ready by the sound emitted from the machine and the smell, which his nose is tuned specifically to.
The Lonely Writer forgoes food most mornings, ready to fight hunger until food presents itself later in the day.
Signaled by the sun being at it's highest point in the sky, the Lonely Writer takes the time to pursue food. Being a hunter by nature, his first thought must be: how much change has he secreted away in his animal hides?
|The Lesser Gas Station Sandwich|
On a good day, the hides bring forth a bounty of monies exchangeable for goods. The Lonely Writer stalks the cafe, summoning a hot meal and further coffee from another less erratic species, 'The Server'. After consumption of a meal like this the Lonely Writer will feel warm and satisfied, his belly full and his mind now active having wasted much of the morning.
On days when everything seems to be in the face of the Lonely Writer the animal hides produce only enough wealth to purchase the 'lesser gas station sandwich', which even the Lonely Writer knows is potentially poisonous, and should only be consumed in desperate times. These are desperate times.
As day rolls into dusk, the Lonely Writer returns to his own territory, tired after the tribulations of having to deal with 'other people' during the daylight hours, ready once again to slump to the keyboard and begin the endless work. He removes the socially acceptable hides of the day, and returns to the computer.
At the keyboard he will consume vast quantities of coffee, chocolate, and chocolate milkshakes, until it is time to feed, where he will go in search of frozen food stored in abundance. Having selected the least undesirable 'microwave meal', the Lonely Writer will consume his meal back at the keyboard, now partaking in the ritualistic bottle of wine.
As the Lonely Writer becomes tired, he slips into a deep coma like sleep, taking comfort in the warmth of the Snickers wrappers that surround him and the gentle hum of the computer...