The inspiration I found in the heart of where inspiration is supposed to be, fled into the horizon where nothing lives. Even the wind, my muse of ordinary contraption, fled for warmer islands. My trees color black and crumble to ash. The stench is unbearable, like a crowd of angry fans who now feel betrayed, hated, and left alone. The waves that used to sing only mutter monotonous chants now, like old monks lost in the maze of their cloisture.