Dear writer,

In reply to your last letter, damn you. Pick pocketing excuses like you own them… Am I such a futile enemy? I’m more than a blockade – yes, I pride myself. I’m a gate. And you never have the key…do you?

Covetousness is a sin, and I make you transgress? Yes, the buttery feeling between your fingers as I roll away is what all of you word rapers want. Don’t you see I’m needed? Something similar to Hercules thighs needs to stop the torrent of waste that comes from all arts of the earth. Oh, I know sometimes you blow me over with awe – I am stitched up by the wounds you have all caused me with your flitting inks, splatting on paper. I can see it, you all think you are Picasso’s.

Spare me, nemesis. I will move forward if you parley on,

Yours faithfully,

Writer’s Block