A blank page stares up at me
As I attempt to sift through volleys of words,
Shot at me from my subconscious
The search for meaning is soon aborted.
Words swirl around my head
The vortex is a migrane
Thoughts remain half-formed.
The consistance of a bad souffle.
I make a desperate call
The phone rings, is answered.
"I'm sorry to have missed your call..."
The muse is out.
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