i need my pills.

i want to create.  but i have nothing to create.

i marvel at how authors like dan abnett and jk rowling can create entire worlds in words, while i can't even get a short story published.  i start thinking that i'm no good, that i'm just not a writer, regardless of how much i love it.

i've woken shadow up next to me.  she cracks open a moon-yellow eye and looks sideways at me for a long moment.  then she stretches, arching like a halloween cat, and sits up.  she looks like that french cat from the old poster.

my stomach is tight.  i want to scream.