Scribbling on loose paper, with other pieces crumpled up on the floor. Hours of frustration turned into days of inpatients. Writhing at the writing table burning through my ink. A quill and my pen are worn to a frazzle. Try as I might, the words escape me and all I am left with is dribble. So from the formless blobs, I seek inspiration but all that remains are blotted ink stains on the page. So I scribble on in a vain attempt at writing, hoping to find inspiration to create words of beauty again.