"Are you going to bed yet?"
"I haven't decided... I might have to go to the bathroom and I have planned on eating something... and I might, no probably not."
"What?"
"Read, I'll probably not read."

It was no wonder, he had been watching TV all day.
The energy he was expending just to keep his eyes half open seemed to be more than he had left.
Certainly more than would allow him to stand up straight.
Now he had always had a slump in his posture but until now he managed to convince that it was a great weight, and a worthy [bad word] against said unnamed weight.
Now with greasy hair, and a flatter looking forehead...
He wore the slump of an old deflated man.
The deflated man turned away from the other and shut his door. There was a candle burning on the desk.
Illuminating the soft white blank pages of an open notebook. In front of that notebook he sat.

His posture seemed better suited for sitting. 
He imagined his head hanging from a chain attached to the ceiling and base of his neck.
Leaving his head three inches from the still blank pages.
He would have appeared like a marionette if he turned to see his shadow against the wall. 
His shadow, instead of dancing as most shadows do when thrown by candle light
Just moved to and fro.. changing perspectives
Like a sculptor wondering where his last chisel would land.
Or if the last one were necessary at all. 

With the pen in his left hand, he still hand one there despite the still blank pages three inches from his eyes left and right. He began to carve a heart into the side of the candle. It was a small heart, it would have easily fit within the confines of a coin. But [bad word] .. he carved the heart away with the same hand that still held the pen.