One-thousand words is never enough

Sitting at a desk lit only by the poorest of lighting, allowing the words to flow through him from brain, to arms, to hands, through a series of intricate nerves that had survived the war. The memories coming out flat just so matter-of-fact like because enough time had passed and he had thus far been so successful at shoving the feelings down, becoming numb to anything related to the war. The only noise in the background is the monotonous clicking of the keys against the page. Click, click; click, click, stopping only to gather his thoughts and move on again.