I wonder where my ability to create went. Did the pharmacopoeia destroy it or was it only there because of that? Could I create before, or was the ability lost after weaning myself off the meds? I wish I could focus like I used to...I consider getting back on them...just so I can write like I used to, make art, just so I can have ambition to create. I feel like some dying creature, mewling and weak.

The warm liquid crosses my tongue, an earthy bitterness of caffeinated broth, abortifacient in all it's glory. I look at him from across the room. You never were any better than the rest. You never were special. Your high opinion of yourself, your boring mannerisms...I was sick of you before I ever met you. All you are is shallow surface data... You're filler people. Just filler. Nothing more.