Brooding over sorrow and lost love, a poet sits in a chair in a half lit room. A typewriter on a dusty desk, the writers block makes the writer wile away the hours. Going to wash up, a razor glistens in it's holder. What is the point, why not cut my wrist. All the while contemplating what it actually means. A former lover calls to let the poet know that a child exist from their consummation, the brooding soul says what do you want from me. If the poet were to try to raise the child, then it too would sit quietly and brood. Until one day perhaps it became a philosopher. Who would them berate poets, who sit around staring at blank pages while eyeing a razor blade. So it is perhaps better that a poet should not have offspring or shave that often, to prevent ending what could be an amazing life on both counts, if not for the depression and idle brooding that poets seem to enjoy so much and would likely pass on if they did not die at their own hand.