Aphelli

O Muse, please sing a writer’s frightful woes:

His mind and limb become his dreaded foes.

His hand is limp before the empty sheet

That stalls his thoughts and makes his drive retreat. 
 

… okay, that wasn’t very good poetry. Perhaps it might not be too terrible an idea to actually read some before I attempt something like that again. 

In everyday speak: chapter 55 isn’t out yet and I’m frustrated that it takes such a long time. And I worry about not getting the tone right. It’s not even like there’s going to be anything very important in it! 
 

(there used to be, but then it would have been too long). 
 

And of course, I have but the faintest notion of what happens next…