My dead muse is gone… The only words which remain now are my own. These thoughts that remain are familiar…though they come with that same labored effort I’ve known since youth…like pulling a heavy root from hard soil. It was easier when my dead muse led the way, allowing me to follow behind as she stepped easily through abstraction, and pointed the way towards silent impressions I cannot seem to muster on my own by way of my dull pedestrian life. I expect a trip back to the desert will secure our reunion. Though I wonder if she’ll ever follow me back again? Has she perhaps seen enough of civilization’s vain and glossy proposals of meaning? Has she had her fill of our fearful efforts to hold back her night? The words are gone.