These words can't write sober. Atleast that's what I told myself before I took the alcohol from my pen. There were no more memoirs, mediocre or mundane. There was plagiarism and perfectionism. Not a word had left the page.
And when I gave the pen his requested drink, sick did he become. Copious prose spewed from his mouth; a ***** of ceaseless release.
And that's the story of how I found happiness, and realized it's not for me.