All art eludes me. I cannot write, nor can I sing. It is neither happiness nor sadness that stays my quill, nor any other form of unstable human sensation. It is but the lack of imagery, that which cannot be quenched by mere black ink to scrape endless pale parchments. It is the want of muse, the desire for its profusion where nothing of it can be perceived around. Its scarcity makes it more precious than gold and even diamond. For these can be sought in the world’s darkest, deepest mines. But Muse remains a fable beneath centuries of myths; a dweller of the highest pinnacle of the world, a treasure among the Gods and the Ancients. And I still seek it in vain.