So here he sits life chasing him like a hound?

The pitiful thing must be dying for an end.

Very literally you could say.

And there a man sat at a printer desk that he called home.

Alone, and unwelcome in his own mind.

This man was like most men to wish death upon himself.

A man out of shape, and time.

However apart from most other men in this sort… He would write to make a tale of intrigue, for the few who could see to enjoy.

Perhaps to pity himself, perhaps to steel his nerves and get through life.

And hear you sit listening to him whine.

Maybe it intrigues you, maybe you read it out like a story trying to piece it together.

You just want to know who the broken one is, don’t you?

Well, put simply it’s me, you, and my mind.