I feel such disappointment at my well of ideas going dry. The snippings of colour blurring through dirty lenses of my glass because I keep rubbing my eyes. Frustration, a crust that I pick at, tearing away with my fingernails, until it falls to the wayside. Leaving small drops of blood on top of the tender pink skin. Without knowing, I let out a loud sigh. You say, "Is anything wrong?" I respond, "No. Nothing."
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