Chinaski
The old man was full of gratitude and he wept with his pen, the years of sorrow and hard living spilled out of his soul, somehow transforming all of his scars into a beautiful mantle of being. Some called him a poet others an alcoholic, yet neither describes fully the journey a man walks from his first gut punch to the peaceful surrender of his life at last breath. On buses and park benches, at libraries in distant cities, through endless nights listening to the cockroaches in rented rooms, and in the retelling of his sad story to the women he put on the clock, he searched for some meaning. Then one day he became aware of the invisible help, which had always been there and everywhere, thus putting an end to his pain without reason.
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