The weeks sting of depletion. I wring my mind with vice-grip fingers. Eking out every available syllable of tempo. I twist again; a tightening helix that drips dust and reconstitution.
In time, my wrists are at backwards right angles to one another. I can't extract any more from my bludgeoned brain. I'm left staring at an imaginary point between glazed eyes and creativity. My hands listless with comfortable paralysis. I taste tiny writer's block. It's the bitter amateur flavor of formaldehyde and catabolism.
11:16 p.m. - 2014-08-14
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