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I’ve been banging my head against the wall trying to climb over a serious writer’s blockade, that I feel like I had inadvertently surrounded myself with. I can’t shake this fucking slug who’s sucking the nutrients and passion out of the crevices of my head meat. The brain folds sucked dry by this unruly monster of stale eyes. Like a whore on the clock, it remains steadfast in its consumption of my entirety, leaving me a quivering husk at the edge of a keyboard, and staring blindly into the mess of things that have polluted my once beloved void.

Woe is all I can have today. I must scream into the tornado and beg for an offering of clarity. But even still, in my slow progression, I am slaved to the task. I suspect all of this pain is part of the process, after all. If it was easy, everyone would write a motherfucking novel. Onward and upward! Perhaps a pour favour, wherein a gesture of kindness results in a drink poured into an empty chalice.

Oh sweet, sweet pain. Fuck you.

Less than three you,

Ryan

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