(I have to get this piece out of me. It sounds rediculous, but I believe its absolutely consuming me. I don't know if its quality work, or of its possible value. All I know is that this is all I want to work on, and its emotionally exhausting.)

Chinaski sat alone at the bar in the small diner; smoking cigarette after cigarette while nursing the same cup of coffee. Just like every other day, he poured it for himself before taking a seat and milking the same cup for the better part of an hour. He knew that the young waitress didn't care enough him (or her job for that matter) to give his cup the slightest consideration. In fact, sometimes she would return to a stationary position behind the counter after filling every cup in the entire restaurant except his. She would stand right in front of him while engaging in brief pseudo conversation with seemingly everyone else in the store. Chinaski could never hear their discussions. They simply reminded him of the apathy he felt in his house by replacing the alarm clock and electric razor buzzes as the comfortable white noise in his day's background.
He struggled to find the answers on The Star Tribune Source page folded neatly in front of him. There was something that struck Chinaski about crossword puzzles. There always seemed to be countless variations of answers to each question; but there always was only one correct response. One could fill in a veritable plethora of various letters into each of the small square blocks; but only one would truly be suffice. There was only one correct answer to a question that seemed to have a limitless amount of responses. The Star Tribune Source page had become the physical representation of every question one man could have regarding life. Was there a heaven or hell, the question's structure was not debatable. It was clearly yes or no, two letters or three. There was no point in arguing what version took place in the after life; after all, he reassured himself ' soon enough he would ultimately know the answer.
Only on occasion would Chinaski look up from the questions of the world to observe his surroundings. As they had all forgotten he still frequented the establishment; Chinaski had succeeded in the struggle to maintain the same sort of apathy toward their existence. Chinaski had concluded every one of the 'regulars'� he used to converse with in the smoking section finally figured out that he wanted nothing more to do with life. As they were all much older and nearing death at a much more rapid speed; he knew they would much rather spend their last remaining years engaged with those who had the same appreciation for life as they did.
Truth being told if Chinaski could have felt anything, it would have been resentment for every last one of them. After all, they were their when he was living through the happiest time in his life. That is why he dared not look over to the smoking section for too long. Because often he would then see himself as he was back then.
Once he saw himself sitting there for hours with nothing but a laptop separating him from the most beautiful woman in the world. That vision of a woman would be bored out of her mind, never once showing it. She was there simply to support him. Every once in a while, she would try to distract him while playfully leaning her head over the top of the laptop monitor as if trying to get insight into his work. Young Chinaski was so entranced with the piece that (much like now) he would lose consciousness of where he was or who he was with. All it took to bring him back to reality was one bat from of the beautifully rich forest of her green eyes. He would be welcomed home to the coffee and comfortable conversation that he had temporarily left. Never once did she ever claim it bothered her. She would engage with random conversation with the old men as if she were as wrinkled and weathered from the world as they were. Just like everyone else she would ever meet, they loved her. It was because she chose him, the minimalist writer from the diner, that he was in fact the luckiest man in the world.
When the happy couple was alone the red head claimed he looked so intent that she would wished nothing more than to experience his world if only for one moment. However things were much different now. If she were still alive Chinaski could only imagine that she would fear the world he lived in, a world of apathy and disdain for not only himself; but those who ostracize his existence.
The vision of the two young souls who would eventually share a love that could ignite the world was a comforting vision. Though seldom happened upon, these memories that over took his reality temporarily saved him from his own world. The emotionless grays and blurred conversation were overtaken by the memory of a time filled with wonderful colors and discussion. The warm camp fire of her red hair was one of many physical representations of her burning exuberance for life.
From his position at the bar Chinaski watched himself and the girl he would one day accept into his life discover each other over cups of coffee. Laughter posed as the intermission between stints of eye contact probing the soul. The memory was so real it was as though he could actively participate if he truly wanted to. He did not. With a comforted smile taking over his face, he enjoyed the rest of his coffee while quietly observing. He had been a part of the discussion once before; and Chinaski was perfectly content with that. As soon as he fully embraced the memory in his mind; he could feel it becoming tainted by the cold presence of an unfamiliar soul.
A well dressed man sitting at the small table just beyond his booth sipped a cup coffee. He seemed to taking notations into a journal that wasn't even present. Tilting his head, the soul appeared to be eavesdropping on Chinaski and his bride to be before scribbling something into the air in front of him.
Chinaski was puzzled. The memory of himself and the girl in the booth was losing relevance while Chinaski tried to place the significance of this new character. Every twist of the man's wrist stole the color from the vision. One by one, the brightly illuminated colors of the items surrounding Chinaski became saturated with grays and off-whites.
'What are you doing?'� Chinaski asked while growing more and more concerned. He observed his environment, noticing the film of his mind's home movie slowly beginning to flicker and tear. 'You need to stop that'�. Hey'� You!'�
Tilting his head briefly in response gave away that the man in the black suit obviously heard Chinaski's question. He avoided the comment and began to write on the imaginary notepad with a much quicker pace.
'No, you can't have these. They're mine!'� Chinaski commanded forcefully while attempting to get up from his seat and move toward the villain. Sensing Chinaski was on his way over, the well dressed old man simply stopped what he was doing. With an exasperated somewhat bothered sigh, the man finally looked over to Chinaski, freezing him at the bar. An unnamable pain instantly overtook his stomach. He clenched his chest and tried to rip the pain from his body while falling over in his seat. Struggling to raise his head, Chinaski finally made eye contact with the invader. Eyes of pain and years of struggle met the cold blank stare of what felt like death itself. Its eyes were black holes that seemed to swallow every emotion from the memory.
With his head hanging over his body, Chinaski opened his eyes. His pulse beat so ferociously he could see his veins bulging while the blood circulated through his hands. Each beat slightly cracked a black tint into his skin. With the black hole continuing to engulf his surroundings, he fought the urge to vomit while regaining consciousness.
Chinaski fought and struggled with his mind while a sudden yet unavoidable darkness overtook him. The old men's faces began to drip like those of an abstract painting. Their cheeks and chins were dripping to the floor like nothing more than oversaturated ink on a canvas. The old men turned their rotten faces to him as if awaiting his arrival into hell. Their mouths were now black holes beckoning Chinaski's entry into a world were these memories would no longer plague him. Was this death calling him? Was this hell in two or three letters? Yes or no.
His eyes opened to their fullest extent to reveal a familiar pale white blur. Swinging his head around to take in the surroundings; Chinaski tried to recover his breath while wiping the sweat from his brow. A moist silhouette was all that remained on his pillow while the white blur turned into his studio ceiling. With an exasperated sigh, Chinaski twisted his head to the alarm clock. It clicked to its customary time and sounded the buzz that would welcome him back into reality ' 7:59.

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