The lights in the office seemed even more artificial due to the dullness outside. Clouds hung heavily over the roofs of the buildings pushing a blanket of lethargy down onto my chest.

My eyes watered with half stifled yawns and my head and lungs were filled with wooliness.

The air was still, accentuating the suffocating dullness of the day and a light drizzle had started to fall offering no cool and wet rejuvenation.

The bread is stale the coffee bitter and all is wrong with the world. How am I supposed to create with no inspiration, no beauty, no contrast? Suffering does not motivate me to purge my feelings on to canvas or clay. Pain and suffering make me despondent and bored and tired. I need sweeping landscapes and noise and life and beauty in strange places. A wistful romance has always been a more productive state of mind.

I am an artist ready for greatness wilting in the ordinariness of everyone elses existence.