At a loss for words anyway, around the bend comes
a view of Writer’s Block. It’s impossible (literally) to describe the sight, or
how I feel. I try reading the road signs, hastily propped across this road less
travelled. Maybe they give a clue, a way out, but words have lost their meaning.
I wonder what scenery, the other side of the Block, will stir me anew to an
article of faith, an ode of surprise. Road workers like Desire and Perfection
discuss the holdup with Despondency and Emptiness, tossing around my chances
with jokes (“December already?”)and time checks.
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