My dream has always been simple but one I'd have to slave away for to reach.

A café. It's in the afternoon. I'm known in this café because of how many times I've come to this place. The cashier recognizes me instantly and smiles. He's cute. As soon as he sees me, he begins punching in my order. I give him the money for it.

A Caramel Brule Grande with two extra pumps of caramel and a strawberry cream cheese pastry.

I take a seat by the window in one of the high chairs and set up my laptop as he makes my order. I get up to get it, thanking him again.

Back at my laptop, I begin looking for the file that has my latest manuscript. I take a sip of the warm, sweet drink. I cross my knee high boots and shrug my jacket off. I swipe the crumbs from my pastry off my black pants. My shirt doesn't matter. That's emotion, not exact.

Then I set straight to work on the manuscript with a deadline in a few weeks. There's barely anyone in the café except the usuals and maybe a few new people.

That's my dream.

How I ever so craved the long a sleepless nights, where my fingers became numb from typing for so long and how my energy was dropped to the point where I could barely move afterwards. I wanted this feeling. I wanted the stress.

My desire is unending to become a madman, completely insane, until I'm a full slave to literature.

My dream may be completely idiotic and somewhat masochistic to others but its not their dream.

It's my world.