Start with a fresh idea. It appears crystal clear and lucid, the fringes stretching and fabricating on their own. It looks good, so far.
I put my pen down to write. A diabolic blot of ink drops. A white haze infuses itself and now it has all become murky, no longer as apparent. Almost as if a frosted glass screen has descended, blocking my horizon.
I HAVE to shatter the glass. I stand beside the pile of hammers. I HAVE to pick one.
A battle to fight, every day. Every day… every day… every day, a fink.