I'm devoid. I've dried up. I'm hollow. My muse has suffocated. I have sown, but reap only weeds and dust.
I have creative block, and it is probably the worst it's ever been; everyone gets it, right? But you bounce back, you find the spark, the wrench in the works snaps and the cogs start churning anew. This time, though, it feels more as if the cogs are toothless discs, grinding slowly into each other, eroding themselves to shavings; I, frantically, am trying to reconstitute them, to paste them back together with spit and mud - hopeless.
Yes, that is the word. Hopeless.
But, who gives a fuck?