Creative Hunger: Pacified.

You are my split nail. Ragged. I catch you on every pair of stockings that I wear. You snag my lip a thousand times a day, subconsciously drawing blood. I should spare the time to trim your edges, to calm your pleadings, to dull your voice, and yet... you are my sharpened edge, my heightened response, my after-all~ (and here I thought you were my paper quill flowing ink to swirling black in stone scented liquid on feathered paper air... absorb absorb ah, absorb me...) but hope upon hope comes to naught tonight as you are but a fortune of pain on the verge of exposé, and I simply, unequivocally, have no time for you.