(no subject)
Blank white page, and my muse as allusive as always, she speaks to me in the most strangest of places, i hear her song in the car. I hear her words while in class. None of these places do i have anyway to capture that inspiration, and then when i set down, they are all gone. So i feel yet more space with trivality and uselessness trying in vain to summon some spark of creativity where its need most. To be recorded
To be remembered, relfected upon, and read again. Alas, not this day. i pause to look at my hands, lost in the contures, my eyes focus on a smudge on my screen that i have just noticed and which now i must clean.
so now i will close with the muse gone, driven into banality. Maybe another day.
but not this day.
To be remembered, relfected upon, and read again. Alas, not this day. i pause to look at my hands, lost in the contures, my eyes focus on a smudge on my screen that i have just noticed and which now i must clean.
so now i will close with the muse gone, driven into banality. Maybe another day.
but not this day.