The white out.

You have stared and stared and the hours passed.
The screen got no darker. No words sullied the terrifying purity of the screen.
No character came to life. No memory drew pulse.
No gossamer storylines unfolded - haltingly or otherwise.
You simply stared.
And smelled your hand.  Is that tobacco?  Have you been sneaking a cigarette or small cigars again?
Jesus fuck! When will you ever learn?!
Was it not enough to stand outside in the cool air and watch the stars and storm clouds pass over this mountain while you sulked into the empty dark?
Was it not enough to hear the train and the traffic off in the distance?
You had to smoke?
Did you?  I forget.  The hour is, after all, late.
You've done this before too. But still you come back.
You always come back.
And why?  You pursue immortality of some small kind?  Are you kidding?  Are you fucking joking?
Like you've ever given a shit as to whether someone - anyone - even remembers your name let alone your risible, scrabbling snatches at posterity.
I sound harsh, I know.  I sound sadistic.
But no, don't turn me off.  I was kidding.  Just - fuck it.  You know?
I've missed you, my friend.
I've - and I'm being honest here - I've missed your gaze.
The way you sit and look at me.  I want to say stupidly but you're not stupid.
Or perhaps you are and I'm simply giving you the benefit of the doubt in this dying hour of magnanimity.
But it's not the point and you know that and I know that.
No.  The point is this.
While you weren't watching,
look what appeared!

'Cuz everyone is a fucking Napoleon.