On that day, like any other, he’d this Sisyphean task of bearing the load of his precarious existence. Now asphyxiated, now nauseated, every fibre of his being cried out for sense. On his way to the station, he wracked his brain over what else he could do to be able to stand a little taller. As he approached the subway, he found a stack of newly-published tabloid, its last page carrying his maiden authored article.
The paper is now defunct. But the new lease of life it gave him then is yet to expire.