I'm [insert post title here]. How dreary! How melancholy! How sadly dull life is without the light brush of inspiration against one's heart! I mean, COME ON. That's awful.
Before my several muses fled with the wind, I was going to write about something that was quite poetic. But now... (sighing)
I was going to write about how my shoes lightly tickled the weary pavement.
I was going to write about the pleasant echo of my steps in the silence.
I was going to write about the strong breeze decided to twist its tendrils through my hair.
I was going to write about the soft squeak of protest a door made as I slid it open.
I was going to write about the soft, ancient darkness that enfolded me like a blanket.
I was, but....I'm just not inspired.
