When writer's block gets bad enough that the only thing you can think to write about is how your writer's block feels[
:a punishing regime of self abuse:
It started as a high-pitched but barely audible whine, like that sound an old tv tuned to nothing makes] started and never left] after a while even the memory of the starting fades and you kind of accept it as part of your perception] a dulling of it] sit day after day staring out a window at a terrible, uneventful, mundane view, lacking even the energy to simply change the view] makes my hands [n[u[m[b[ and I drift off in the middle off typing this to look out [5 hours pass here, and I] can't even finish a sentence without a chorus of exasperated sighs
no movement no sense of humour
a migraine drills into my temples////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
:: lay waste my heart with monotones of boredom ::
Overwrought pressures compound the burden of knowing nothing.
All the bodies have been removed, but it will never be clean here.
maybe, a psychic wreckage] maybe maybe maybe unmeasurable quantum excitations]
i am sure it was there.
this is where i left it]
frustration squalls and squeals like a field of blackboard-nails
[sometimes, when sufficiently panicked, my spine instinctively tries to flex in a distinctly inhuman fashion] reminds me of the contortions of a fish dropped on the ground]
shaken by ultimate unknowns, your information is valueless
(pouring gasoline on ice-cold week-old dead-ash] the smell makes me nauseous and drives me from the room] the interrogation is over, the experiment is over] drilling recedes to a muscular ache in the back of my neck]
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