Fleeting thoughts pass through my consciousness like meteors by a lax astronomer. Stories unwritten play out on a thousand T.V.s tuned to their own noise. Blips of thought dance on my wits-end. A restless strain of hyperactive lethargy. I wouldn’t call it writers block maybe, writers creative feedback, a static noise of every muse.

The Royal House of Divine Inspiration occupied the fields of Creativity. Concentration fought its last battle on the plains of Conscious Thought. Until nothing was left but a still air over battles never fought and tales never told.

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