The three recurring characters all met up with the mediocre writer for an unexpected sit-down at a dive diner where unpublished authors often sulk.
"What are you three doing here," the writer asked?
The wise older man with eyes that were metaphors for the wordsmiths pain said nothing. He never had to talk. The ex-girlfriend ordered cheese sticks for everyone at the table. She cared so damn much about people. How did he ever let her get away?
The third character kept walking in and out, changing every time, never the same person, and so hard to identify or relate to, a real imperfection. A fragment of the brain. The author noticed many others closing in from the fractured outside world. He closed his tired eyes , waited, and prayed for success.