Smashing knuckles against the sharp gritty walls of the tomb as the chisel misses it's mark and slides wide. The weight of the mallet only stops when the knuckles come to a dragging stop on the shattered rocky surface.
My muse of misery that is apart of so much of my waking hour thoughts. She grows stronger as I grow weaker. I'm a slave to the miracles of beauty that she creates.
She is mocking, cold, and terribly cutting. There is no choice of anything better. Addicted to creating at all costs, regardless of the cost.
Although related, I believe that the the muse is not you.
There can be long periods of complete silence from the muse and regardless of how I try to tempt her, I only find that I know nothing about her.
Maybe it's her cruel unpredictable nature that is so appealing. The thrill of the unknown is intoxicating
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