Tools of the trade
The keyboard lies silent, like a long-closed factory, its worker-keys now unemployed, passing into disuse and irrelevance.
The pen lies on its side, like a dead soldier, a used-to-be who has taken an early pension, now laying in the sun.
The notebook lies closed, in a crypt-like embrace, its secrets hidden inside except; here there are no secrets, just untouched pages.
The once-writer lies on his side, a book in his hand, eyes skipping over the words someone else has written; and wonders.
My Words, My World 