The old man and the
sea…the Hemingway mystique. It’s the salt in the air and the crash of the surf.
The skies becoming as gray as your beard. It’s the ice in the glass. It’s
finishing a fifth because…well, you want to. The words come easier… if the
ideas are not quite coherent. The tap, tap, tap of the old typewriter. Stumble
back to the room with the torn screens on the windows. Kick the sand out of
your shoes. Find that beef jerky. Do it all over again tomorrow.
