The problem with inspiration
Skilful navigator of ennui,
I ride the grind of time
waiting for that pale fire
to leave its scorch on my page.
My days stretch beyond endurance
but when the magic is cast right,
I cram seven in one like a dog.
But then the hourglass drops
its final grain, the flame gutters,
my head pounding with the ghosts of words.
The spell is short - the hangover long.

Congratulations on your scorched pages
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