Nothing Yet

Good god your predicament describes mine to a tee. I sit in front of a bright screen fingers cold from lack of movement itching to fly across the lettered stage they live for uncharacteristically silent. For days now no, weeks I have told myself "Let us create something worthy of note." Needless to say, our communication skills have suffered as of late. There is a block of ice (perhaps mine matches yours) restricting the breath of that which bleeds creation deep inside me. Yet I can't find the strength to break it out.