My muse has left me. Fleeing like the dying starlight at dawn. Her once whispered voice echoing in my ears is now silent. It hurts. Oh how it hurts. To be abandoned. Alone. Lost.

My muse has left me. I sit quietly in the dark, hoping. Hoping that she might come wondering by. A spark of inspiration shinning like a million suns. But it is a hollow hope. The kind of hope reserved for spurned lovers and dejected politicians.

My muse has left me. Our work still undone. The last finished sentence sits lame on the page. It knows it was not meant to be the end. Yet it looks past the lonely period to the remaining white landscape like a