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Description
How can I write when I'm scared to begin? How can I write when my words don't make it from my head to my hand and I've lost my patience?

It dripped out of me one day, and stained like candle wax. It bled like watercolour and seeped into the carpet.

I'm too tied up in reality; I've become monochromatic, then sepia, then black and white. I am missing the grey moments between saturated colour. I am only scrawl in non-colours, put at extremes.

I'm trying to make my second heart beat again, to churn out four more knocks before I die. It seems such a simple thing in daylight. It seems such a simple thing when you're mad.

Instead, I am sane, and I've been sane for far too long. Monochromatic landscapes are not original. Typography is not original.

The margins of margins are original. They are untouched, and make me need to fade again.

I've lost it. I have nothing to express.

Description
How can I write when I'm scared to begin? How can I write when my words don't make it from my head to my hand and I've lost my patience?

It dripped out of me one day, and stained like candle wax. It bled like watercolour and seeped into the carpet.

I'm too tied up in reality; I've become monochromatic, then sepia, then black and white. I am missing the grey moments between saturated colour. I am only scrawl in non-colours, put at extremes.

I'm trying to make my second heart beat again, to churn out four more knocks before I die. It seems such a simple thing in daylight. It seems such a simple thing when you're mad.

Instead, I am sane, and I've been sane for far too long. Monochromatic landscapes are not original. Typography is not original.

The margins of margins are original. They are untouched, and make me need to fade again.

I've lost it. I have nothing to express.