Some days are harder than others; the drudgery of type-font against retina display screens. The blinking cursor, unforgiving like the tapping foot of an impatient teen.

You pivot between fiction and fact, noun and verb, too much and too little. Characters hang about like paper dolls, seemingly of substance until proven flat.

Hours pass. You pick at words like a scavenger in a boneyard. Half eaten ideas exposed to a beating sun; spotlighting the struggling artist.

A viscous fog creeps down from the mountain of expectations, sinister in its slow decline. Within it’s folds, a raspy voice, ‘this is bullshit.’

Shift. Highlight. Control. X

Such is the lobotomy of inspiration.

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