I woke up this morning. Something, someone, was missing. I looked around, and on top of my computer, there was a hastily scrawled note in familiar handwriting. My own.

"What the hell?" I thought. "I didn't remember writing any notes..." Nervously, I picked it up. It read as follows:

Dear Greth,

I am sorry, but I need a break. I've been helping you so much, and well, frankly, you haven't given very much back. So I'm taking a vacation. I should be back within the week, but if I am later, do not fret. This is for both our benefits, as I've no ideas to give when I'm this tired.

Sincerely, Your Muse

"Oh shit," were the only words that found my lips. Quickly, I whipped out a notebook, pen in hand. Nothing. Not my signature starter phrase. Not layout inspiration. I forced myself to write something. All that came out was the following:

I live
I will
A fast

That was all. I was empty. I was alone from my inspiration. Writing poetry keeps me sane. It keeps my feelings from either over or underwhelming me. But... now. It's gone, now. She's gone. I certainly hope that she's enjoying herself, no matter where she is. But she had damn well better have some good ideas when she gets back here.