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My paper is ready.
My pens are full of ink.
I secured the spot on my
favorite café
where my muse
claimed in her calling card
she would be.
The chair-to-table height ratio
is perfect for writing.
The weather is divine
and I have plans of not getting up
for the next eight hours
because today is the day
I spawn my next masterpiece.

But you will not respond to my messages

and suddenly my bad throat isn’t quite as healed
as I thought it was
I wanna go home
and I wonder what I’m even doing here