The woman takes another sip of her wine staring at the blank screen of her computer. No glasses tonight. She's drinking right out of the bottle. Another deadline has come and gone. With nothing to turn in yet again. She's taken to drinking, hoping it'll let the ideas flow. The creativity and quality reporting she had become known for has become locked away behind a fog in her mind.

For a moment she grasps at an idea. She grabs it and begins to type. Thirty-six words in. She's done. The idea has gone from her head already. She saves it as a draft. Maybe she'll finish it later. For now it's gone. Just a butterfly drifting out of sight through the fog. This was her life now. A new document, a blank canvas. Maybe she'll have something to paint today. Maybe she won't.

It' been three weeks since she's been able to write something meaningful. Something that people would want to read. A quick glance out the window sees the sun has already set. The moon has risen and another day has passed without having created anything. She takes another drink and stumbles from her desk towards the couch, her new bed because she never wants to be too far from her computer if an idea comes.
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