You're unable to focus. Lie. You're tired and overworked. Also a lie. You're scared, you're terrified, even though the yearning for creativity itches its way onto your skin and ruptures, bleeding into everything you touch, warping your lips, and making you combust. All your thoughts are shoved down your throat, plastering and shivering, leaving your lungs strung out. You can't breathe. Everything is ending and you are still not where you want to be. You lash out scratching the air, not knowing who you can trust, wondering if everything you have ever done is a howling misery.