Unamused Comments

She used to hang around a lot. Especially when Indonesian clove smoke danced and swirled around my hand, in and out of me – I breathed it – and her. Where did she go?

Is she as bored as I am at this humdrum existence I'm stumbling through lately? Is she on vacation? Courting some other half-baked aspiring poet who's turning out reams of rhyme and reason while I lay in bed night after night, wide awake and feeling tearful because I can't find myself, my life or my muse?
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