some text

yesterday was a very slow day at work so i started writing this. it needs a lot of work, but i thought i would put it on here anyway.

if anyone has any suggestions let me know.

dont dis it too bad.

He sat slumped in an old leather chair like an old sack of potatoes. His shoes were split at the toes, his trousers worn at the knee, his shirt stained with age.
He scratched hi whiskery chin as he woke, lifted the pork pie hat from his eyes and assessed his surroundings. He didn’t remember how he got to this barn. He didn’t know why there was a chair like this in a barn. He didn’t care, quickly he decided that there was no reason why an old leather chair shouldn’t been in such a setting. It was certainly a better sleep than previous nights.
For Months it seemed he had been sleeping rough, hopping from field to tree to doorway to hostel to barn. It was a life he was happy with, a few cons, but plenty of pros, freedom for one.
The barn was a typical sort of barn, high ceilings, dark wooden walls, straw, a small window near the roof that let the suns ray shine beautifully through the stirring dust. In fact everything about the barn was normal. Only the chair was out of place, or in place, depending on how he looked at it.
With a large sigh and an expression suggesting he had far too much time in the world, he got up. He walked a few steps, paused and turned around to get a better look at his chair. It was; ‘dark red, had those wing bits on the head rest and those sort of stud things that you see in posh offices in films’ he mused.
He hadn’t seen many films; the ones he had seen weren’t very good he thought. Mostly they seemed to have a scene where the protagonist had seen a psychiatrist and had sat on a chair with; head rest bits and leather stud things.
I fumbled through his pockets to find a cigarette. Eventually he found a half smoked fag in his left breast pocket, placed it between his lips then fumbled around some more for a light.
No success.
He carefully pushed the cigarette behind his ear and gathered his thoughts some more.
A small bird of some description landed on the frame of the high barn window. The silhouette chirped a happy tune and flew off into the distant trees.
“Time to go” he mumbled to himself, with a richter shifting grumble.
He took up his bag and stumbled out the door of the barn into brilliant morning sunlight. To his left was an old dirt track leading over a field toward some sheep and the town he came from the day before. Right it was then, he could see a road snaking its way through fields and small woodland. He set off and after only a few steps spotted a packet of matches on the floor, he picked them up and removed the cigarette from behind his ear. The match box was clammy and the matches split on the first few attempts. Through a little perseverance and mild splintering a near by wall made a perfect strike.