The Weekday One Hundred

I crumple up the ink-stained sheet of paper and toss it into the corner. Another failed attempt.

I ease back in my chair and lose myself in thought. The only sound, the incessant drip from a leaky water pipe. My only companion, the exotic twenty-something I dragged home from the club last night.

His heavy chains rattle against the wet basement floor as he struggles to free himself. His muffled screams go nowhere.   

I return to the blank paper on this rotted wooden table but am still at a loss.

And the water still drips.

And the chains still rattle.