Desolation, USA

Tumbleweeds drifted across barren keys. A soft wind blew past a dimmed screen. The power button yearned to be turned on, disillusioned and graying over time. The touchpad, sadly, lay untouched. A faint web stretched lazily across the long unused USB port, climbing halfway up the side of the lid. Echoes of a time long past emanated from dead curcuits, reminding the few who still cared of the salad days of a life ago. A lilting, tossed-off bon mot here. An overwrought, clearly ridiculous piece of seriousness over there. A random Shatner lamentation. Vistas of dusty fields filled with rich green and dandelion. Amazement at the world not revolving according to true Floydian virtue. A tossed Payday wrapper. Sunflower seed shells in and around the wastebasket. These are the things that are remembered, and in some parts of the Intertubes, rather fondly. Others callously disregard and harrumph the day away. These are they who must be held at bay, the whispering tones of discontent; no more can they be allowed to roam freely. A dusty laptop asleep, but soon to awaken. There's life left in the old girl still. And if the blanket of nattering naysaying can be blustered off the shoulders and left to the wind, the helpless fool who wanders through the hinterlands of words and their tricky combinations and equations may find his footing yet. Treacherous days lie ahead; he must slouch ever forward. It is not for nothing that he does this. It is done for the sake of the laptop. Heed these words: the Age of Desolation is soon past.

That, or put another way, I hate writer's block. Yup.