From sirenwriter
I curse him under my breath, even as his work takes it away. He needles thoughts into my fevered brain with his laid lines of curved ink, burdens me with their stories. My heart is chained to them, my words the only tool I have to hammer away at the shackles. Never again shall I be free for as long as he draws; my life is at the mercy of his brushstrokes, his paint the only color of my future. I look ahead to those brilliant skies and stormy seas, see the grand and majestic islands upon which I shall surely run aground. Wrecked perpetually will be my soul, forever sinking into the ocean of divine madness, drowning in a glorious wash of genius. Such is my wonderful and blessed fate.