Xanga Post: Thursday, October 21, 2004

It takes me twenty minutes to walk to one of my favourite spots along the canal so I can sit, relax, and write while enjoying the beautiful autumn weather.

I sit down, open my notebook, pull the pen from by bun and start to write…

One line, ink looks a little faded…

Two line, ink starts to look blotchy…

Third line, no, please don’t do this to me…

Fourth, no. It’s dead.

There must be some sort of vengeful daemon, some anti-muse that haunts writers. To him, I say, “Bastard!”