Last nights...

Life come.
Then it goes.
And it comes back again.
At one hundred miles per hour.

He crumpled the sheet of paper, tossing it over his shoulder to join with his other incompleted poems. He didn't care about littering. He'd pick them up later anyways. It seemed that frustration was getting to him. Guess not practicing his poery made it rusty, quite. Even his humor. It just didn't work.

The ragged membranes of his broken wings shivered slightly in the breeze. Signal to put back on his coat, he was getting cold. He sighed pulling on the long sleeves of his long black jacket, placing a hat to cover his hair. Then, he set his notepad in front of him again, getting ready to write, or try to again.

Writing is putting words on paper.
Inspiration is creating ideas.
Motivation is actually doing it.

He slipped this sheet into his pocket. Stephen needed to remind himself to have all three. So far, he though, looking at his finger, he can write, he can create ideas, and no, he has no goal.

He really needed one.

He slammed his book closed paranoid. Turning a glare at the source of the voice, his stone stare lessened when it was a girl.

Then.

'Another girl?'

What were the chances of girls coming than boys, than none at all eh? Very bad chance, as everyone liked poking around. What were the chances they weren't coming here?

"Er, hi?" he greeted, completely ignoring her question. It came back to him and he managed to stutter out, "Um, nothing, really."

"Eh, I don't think you did," he said sheepishly, tucking his pen behind his ear. He adjusted his seating position to stare the Ember. He drew a black for a bit, and then, very late, introduced himself, "Ah, I'm Stephen."

He scratched his head, thinking. No, he wasn't a writer. Yes, he used to be a poet. Simply and bluntly put, he used to be a poet and was trying to start up his hobby again. "No, I was just doodling around. I was thinking." He said half-truthfully. In all honesty, he was a bad liar, mostly because he spits out the entire truth anyway. "But I used to be a poet," he added, after thinking it wasn't enough.

Read. His. Poems?

"I don't know. I'm just getting back into it. I don't even know if they are poems or anything. But," he stopped himself, hand on his hat. But- what?

"But, it'd be boring," he continued, finally remembering an excuse. "My thoughts are boring, you wouldn't want to read it." He waved the little black notebook around casually.