By Ryan Rosenberry
Even plied with wine, the muse does not leave my side. She speaks to me, never easing, never resting. At first, she was a blessing, crafting writing over which the gods themselves would weep. Yet her voice now brings me to the edge of insanity.
I do not know how to rid myself of her. Even if I managed to craft a plan, I could not trust my sanity, for it must be her placing those mad thoughts in my mind. Even now, as I look down from the highest building, I know she will be with me to the end.