Author's Note: Apparently these are addictive. I promise something of substance soon.
Sometimes Roger feels the urge to hit something. Hard.
His days are no longer full of music and laughter and friends. Now there is emptiness and boredom and guilt.
His guitar, looking forlorn in a corner.
The mean blank page of his spiral turned on its side, staring up like white-blue prison bars.
But Roger is tired.
The joints in his fingers ache, and the guitar gathers dust. He does not have the energy to fill a page anymore, not even with scribble. Sometimes, he is too tired even to sleep the days into oblivion.
Those are the times when he sits. Sits in front of the dirty old window watching the world move on without him, and thinking that one of these times, he ought to join in.