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July 11, 2012
I can only describe it as a creativity block. I don't know where my ideas have gone, why every notion I have of a new story seems to be lost the moment I start to write. I can't think. Ideas were easy when I was younger; they appeared in my mind. Now they have to be mined, extracted, pulled from dark corners kicking and screaming, only to disappear like a specter playing hide-and-seek with the living among the gravestones, a puff of smoke here then gone, a fragment of something that is never solid and never quite materializes.