He used to write poetry. He used to write some of the most beautiful lines out of the most beautiful books when he was younger. Women would be impressed with his speech as he spun tales at coffee shops in Paris. He used to care with a passion and vigor unheard of for his generation. He was the light in the dark room that attracted the most beautiful moths.
He woke up on Monday and began his usual routine of writing. He started with bullet points, something he despised. He started with words that were utilitarian, effective. The words were devoid of emotion and only showed distinction between simple concepts. It was an outline for a meeting he had to lead later today.
How did he get here? What brought him to this point in his life? Was he proud? Was he full?