I'm obsessed with recreating your hit, that natural high. Even with this unnatural stimulation, I'm not filling a void, but hoping to flood the same inspirational channels that have since run dry. You made me wet, dripping with emotions I thought I reserved for paper. But with you, the ink didn't flow from my pen. With you, the black words shot and swirled a world of white: each and every color imaginable. Now that you're gone, I'm back to black: a lack, an endless void of ink blots and crazy talk. And, now, back at my desk, these strokes are the gospel of a hollow man.