Too, tired, so drained

I've reached a barricade, a block. a sudden stop of irrepearable perportions. I no longer have the vast quantities of inspirations as I used to. So I sit and loook at these withered and calast hands, staind with months of clanking away at the amber grays, and shaking from lack of sleep. And thus, my muse. New Post? Once again, here I ramble about you. us. in a past tense. As if speaking in requiesc terms. So what should I make of it? , besides the obvious nothing, and usual self admirable scrabblings, and smears of fouly tense words contrived just enough to make me feel adequite. But not this time. This time it'll take more than a midnight\candlelit date with a keyboard and a bottle of wine to mend these wounds that are still openly seaping with the venom of your goodbyes. Tonight, I'll do the unthinkable: I'll forget.