I can’t write anything at the moment. I feel empty, devoid of words. I seem to be out of ideas. My melancholy, the source of my encouragement and inspiration to write, appears to be insufficient. I once had the skill to turn those misery into words into which only I can comprehend, but those words that I know are unique, and destructive. Artful could be the right word to describe it, but I call it madness, the darkness of my unconscious literature, the devolution of feelings and apathy; Oh what fine prose, those of which could deliver death and life – nothing. Empty, are my mind of murder, oblivion and decay. This wall was once painted with imaginary red, now with hollow white. The drama, the insightful disrespect of flow and continuity of action, the crass impalpability of my inexistent characters: they roam my world no more. They left me without anything. I can’t even explain how it came to this – this obvious waste of time writing this – this effective description of my incapability of doing this – this wall of text written by the null self. There is no meaning to anything at all. This text shouldn’t equate to anything useful, as with anything at all. There is no concept. There is no explanation. There are no rules for the creation – the creation of lifeless lines deprived of context and sense. As with inexistence, writing should be free and unbound. Without context, a new universe of endless definitions and perception will arise. Freedom, the expression of existence through the darkness of words, the creation of life through the death of meaning – ah, this is an epiphany. 



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