There was a dull ache where his
feelings should be. He didn't care. Well, that wasn't quite true.
He still felt something akin to that, but his connection to it was
shapeless and unspecific. Goals, planning, odd thoughts and concepts
had vanished over two years ago into a empty silent static. There
was no direction, no progress, no change - just a numbing sense of
sameness. Still there were things he knew to be true, even if he
couldn't picture them at the moment. It was like being stuck in an
empty waiting room, without anything to accomplish other than passing
the time. If writer's block had a giant, relentless older brother,
this was it. The motivation to do anything was at a lousy five
percent of what it should be. The body was trapped, but so was the
mind.
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