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I need a new perspective. I need a new perspective because my muse has forsaken me and left me for dead on the abandon, deeply rutted road of literature. For all the times I have wanted to consume him so that he would become part of me, I now want to throw him out with the trash. His eyes elude me; I have nearly forgotten the spark he sent straight through to my heart when our eyes locked for the first time. And those footsteps that I had long memorized? Nothing but faded outlines on the dusty ground. I loathe him more than I love him. I am willing to replace him at the oddest moments -- in the shower or checking my email or putting on my shoes -- but then I remember the swagger, the way the hem of his pants falls at his ankles, the way he slows when he passes me. I remember, faintly, the way he smells and the softness of his body. While it isn't enough to restore the inspiration, it is enough to give me chills.

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"When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth." - Kurt Vonnegut


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by madrigals





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