The cursor on his screen beat in perfect time with his uninspired heart. He had approached the temple, cautiously at first, then more boldly, thinking he would always be welcome. But now it was empty, and there was a sense of permanence about the vacancy, the only signs of life or sound the echoing, sing-song laughter of a thousand maniacs, also gone.
He had thought the inspiration came from them (the Muses, not the maniacs); but he was mistaken. You have to bring it with you, present it to them just so, like an offering, like a magic gift, the art a thing between you, belonging to neither, greater than the sum of separate dreams and intentions.
But now they were gone forever, and the well of words too, gone permanently dry, like a last desert oasis become crackling void, surrounded by sand and merciless sun for so long, giving up, giving in, admitting its own implausibility, more dessicated than if words had never been there in the first place. Such was the depth of the dearth, a dehydrated vacuum’s black hole of nothing to write about. No. Of no one to write it to/for/about. This was the essence.
Bungling bungler. Presumptuous poet. Where are you now, without your muses? Muses? MUSES?
And where are they without you? And are they happy? And do they even know you’re gone, and your poetry with them, and their inspiration with you?
It all makes him very uneasy.
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