the po~et 3 (no more toast)

Everyday starts the same for Paul Shaffer. His neatly pressed clothes already strategically hung in his closet. His toiletries lined in order of use. Nothing ever out of the ordinary, he had a routine, a regimen. For breakfast he would always have two pieces of wheat toast and a half a glass of orange juice.

Paul was good looking without trying. The amazing thing was he didn't know it. Although he wasn't athletic (exhausted from his parents continual insistence for him to become the next Larry Byrd) he was tall and lean. Reaching middle age his hair was handsomely graying at the temples and his body movement was sleek and intellectually sexy.

Tonight he would be bothered more than ever about being alone. Time had passed too quickly and he had spent a majority of it reading. Reading about forgotten ideals and philosophies that shaped the way humans saw the world intrigued him. But tonight the thought of not sleeping alone sounded more appealing.

He goes into his study. The study he has proudly built over years of devotion to the written word. Language, communication vacuum sealed in the bounded volumes. His library was his child and the words on those pages had provided many nights of comfort and companionship.

Tonight he writes about love. About falling in love and being loved. Tonight he makes up his mind not just to write what he desires but to write it as if it was true. The poet would become a prophet.