This is my pen, gliding over the page, wishing it could write all the interesting and fantastical words that flit through my head when I am away from my notebook, my time and my art, and at the end of the day, all the words that plagued me, that begged to be set free, are trapped in my mind, refusing to budge, leaving me to sit, barren and sterile, in a noisy coffee shop wondering why I am wasting my time with all the drivel I can’t produce, and swearing at my brain for teasing me with all the brilliant stories and poems the world will never see, because now they sleep in forgotten moments, offering me a glimpse of what could have been, leaving behind a jilted woman with a cold cup of coffee, a page of gibberish and a pen…