Not a thought stirs in the space within my drafty cranium these days, and that gives me the fuckin jitters-- not being able to keep to the pace, a step which came easy for me not too long ago. Inspiration, Phoebus, my personal muse, has forsaken me, no longer amused with my antics, the slant of my asshat, or my clumsy clown shoes wobbling with panic, breath calorific, an Incubus' stigmata. My altar caters now to Eris, she who demands praise from those whose existence segues in stagnant morbidity, longing for the coming day of Atropos.