Sat carving sticks. Long ones. Straight as can be and cured for a while in the air and light. I thought better than to think while doing it. The pit at the edge of the clearing led only one way and the bottom felt spongy the one time I fell and saw their faces. Gaunt faces, eighteen drug-addled eyes. They sat breathing on their fungoid chairs, waiting to be taken back to the old place with silvery days and red wine water. They wouldn’t tell me why they had held on so long in this dead, dirty place, but I could tell right away what they needed: hyper-atomic brains and spears to throw into them. They hid in the pit, overwhelmed and unarmed by choice. Really, they were just bored with the glut of options.
No one wants a muse that can’t stab out your thoughts and replace them with thick, boiling poetry. So I sat, carving sticks, hoping they’d know where to find sharp enough rocks to turn into spearheads. And enough glowing brains to impale despite the darkness.