After his notebook was shredded to pieces, it felt like the only thing left from that whole week was the same old bus driving, which meant nothing. That particular bit was very sad. I didn't think his poems were any good -most of them anyway- but when he lost them, everything seemed even more meaningless than it was before. If you paid attention, he's never truly happy. Not with his phony wife with whom he always forces smiles and pretends he likes stuff when he doesn't, not with his job, certainly not with his dog. He doesn't really love any of it. He finds small things out of his monotonous life that draws him to write monotonous poems. He's not all that talented but there's that glimpse of artistic personality in him -which the Japanese guy could see- that keeps him aware of how even the smallest things in life can be poetic, and it kind of depresses him at the same time.

Funny how sad it actually is when you do have a tiny amount of talent and you never got to improve it because you were never in the right places at the right times, and you'll never work on it as much as you'd want to now because it can't be your main focus. It's left as a half in you. Half a talent, half an interest, an incomplete desire and a hobby that only remains a hobby.