I read a load of Haruki Murakami short stories, specifically the collection entitled ‘The Elephant Vanishes’. It was beautiful, surreal, and measured. It inspired me to start writing stories again. Here’s a sample:

I eventually lean in close to her, first with my body, then my face, rubbing against her cheek to cheek, I whisper in her ear,

‘You could be my moon and my stars.’

She giggles and playfully bats me away. They always giggle like that because no-one expresses sentiments like that anymore. I’m channelling Shakespeare, Byron, and Keats, from my mouth into her ear; the masters of the muse – and the double gin and tonics – imbue my speech. Weaving words softly into her giggling façade. I don’t even know what I’m saying; all I know is that if I’m not careful, the alcohol alone will break my writer’s block. I head to the restroom, promising her I’ll be back shortly.

The restroom is empty, even the guy who sells the aftershave has gone on break, I’ve never known them to go on break before. Whilst I unzip and relax in front of the urinal a gentleman walks in and approaches the urinal next to me. He’s dressed very strangely as if in an Elizabethan play; he must be from the theatre down the street: A lone actor prowling the bars after having given a virtuoso performance in some shitty, run down theatre in the middle of nowhere. He doesn’t say anything, but we exchange courtesy glances. He looks familiar somehow although I can’t place him.

His hair is wispy and swept over on top, whilst a sharp, pointed beard is rooted on his chin. No way, I think, it can’t be, but it is,

‘Are you…William Shakespeare?’ I ask awkwardly.