Purposefully Untitled

A whiskey would help this flow, the young man nearly said aloud.
Pulling the cork with two or three twists, the brash vanilla flavour rose quickly as he poured the amber booze into his waiting cup; and setting it down beside his type-writer, put his fingers to the keys.
As he wrote, the type-frame edged to the left with each stroke, pushing his topped-up glass toward the edge of his small wooden table. He calmly but impatiently grabbed the glass and moved it to the right, continuing to type. He sat.
No words come easily, and he wrenched off the dust-cover from his old machine; an orphaned 'Viking: Deluxe 10' he had picked from his streets trash.
He wrestled with the dust-cover, breaking the seal of the rubber tabs; twisting it from beneath the charging handle. The neat mechanical rows of strikers now faced him.
A bare black and red ribbon staring gaudily at the blank, white paper.
Some dirty, spoiled oil leaked from the keys; the 'j', 'g', and 'p' still often enough stuck fast to give his rhythm a dramatic balance.
He took a long pull from his glass; it was smooth, and warm, smelled of vanilla and cedar.
It didn't help very much- very little inspiration came of it.
He tried to relate the smell one March evening; when the earth was damp and sweet, and rich cedars scented the forest.
He was romanticising, he thought; the the whiskey smelled as much of turpentine as of cedar. The forest had smelled sweet from simple organic decay. Starch - sugar - fermentation.
He wondered whether he fit with the decay, or the sweetness-- the decay, he thought without much hesitation.
He took another long drink, and finished the glass. It didn't help much.