Tempus Fugit

Leaning back in his office chair the scribe span round to scan his year planner that adorned the wall behind his desk.

Various coloured boxes filled in the spaces between the weekends, different city and country names written across them, each one bringing back memories of new experiences and new friends.

His eyes hovered at the end of October, already the year was drawing to a close, the final travel plans being drawn up for the last couple of months, last minute requests being juggled to fit between other taskings already prepared.

He sighed, it had been a busy year and while travel usually meant he could take a bit of time to put pen to paper, his notebooks had remained buried in his bag barely seeing the light of day or the hazy light of a bar.

Course work had taken over the time he would have spent putting random ideas and fantasies into words in the final hope of actually putting them all together into some semblance of literature.

Not that he was giving up, writing was, to him at least, a release, something he could enjoy even if it was not productive. Anyway, who else was going to record his fantastical thoughts often triggered by the sites, sounds and even smells of different locations?

“Yes, Week 49 looks fine, I should be able wrap it up in a few days” ‘And find a corner seat one night in that little bar’ he thought.

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