I got nothing. I have no inspiration -- sweet or otherwise. My muse is on vacation. I wonder whether she's a mountain or ocean kind of person? I'll have to ask her that upon her return. If she returns. Frankly, I'm not sure I would. After all, I'm stuck in a windowless cubicle under the buzz of a fluorescent light. Not exactly the most desirable of work conditions for a muse.
Perhaps there is, somewhere out there (beneath the pale moonlight), a rent-a-muse service. A Netflix for muses, perhaps, for all those would-be scriveners who find their noses pressed up against writer's block. I can't imagine that such an organization would want for customers; the supply side might prove a bit more problematic, however. After all, one man's muse...
I'll spare you my uninspired utterings for the time being.
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