The barren wasteland lay in front of him, blindingly white, devoid of detail, an endless emptiness.
Nearby birds sang silly songs and children played, laughing, crying, oblivious to the lost wanderer just a few moments away.
Downstairs she hummed quietly to herself, love songs from younger more passionate times.
Suddenly before him a shape gradually appeared, at first a mirage he thought, but then no, it was full of detail: tangible, refreshing, taking the form of his lost muse.
The typewriter clattered into action.
At what point did I stop being young? I mean, in my mind I am say twenty something, but in the mirror there is the chap who looks like me, but more like me after a few days in the tumble dryer. Its very distressing actually, so no laughing. So the other day, this young lass says I’m rad, which any idiot can work out is short for the word radical. However I didn’t think I was being particularly radical so some other meaning was in mind I’m sure, but was it good or bad, and if it was bad, was it bad like in good or like in wicked, and if wicked which wicked, wicked good or wicked bad?? My daughter tells me to get with the program, which is a relief because I know how to program.