There is a weight where her heart ought to be. It is difficult to breathe. “This is ridiculous,” she tells herself, repeatedly. She wants to lie down. It takes too much effort to sit up. Sorrowful that she has lost her poetic voice, she resists the temptation to curl into a small, invisible ball.
She forces breath into her lungs, the image of a pair of bellows hovers at the edge of awareness.
It is an act of sheer will. There is no inspiration, no joy. She sits down before the computer and begins to type.
She forces breath into her lungs, the image of a pair of bellows hovers at the edge of awareness.
It is an act of sheer will. There is no inspiration, no joy. She sits down before the computer and begins to type.
