Heart on the Sleeve

[Eaton Shelby]

Eaton definitely had been engulfed in his work -- both activism and poetry. He was always looking for inspiration whether it be in people or places. His quill and parchment was laid out on a table in front of him in his own isolated corner of the Leaky Cauldron. There was an ink stain not that far away from him. It had run down the table and dripped on to his starry-printed trousers. Eaton effectively hadn't noticed.

He was twirling his quill around, inadvertently spraying ink across his nose. Eaton didn't even blink. He was wordless, suffering from writer's block, and the firewhiskey sitting adjacent to his writing hadn't been touched since the waitress dropped it off. He furrowed his brows trying to find the motivation he had been seeking. He felt as though he had exhausted all topics and even revisiting the topics he loved made Eaton think he'd seem more akin to muggle poets Poe and Keats. Eaton was, after all, well learned in the art of poetry. Just, he suffered with romanticism and morbidity and those were not eagerly sought after though fickle hearts ate it up.

And Eaton wanted a fickle heart. He leaned back in his chair, straightening the striped tie he wore loose around his collar. He laid down his quill and picked up the glass of firewhiskey. "Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales," he recited. "If only Tennyson could be as magical in real life as he is with words." Eaton sighed. "I would be so much more eloquent."