I can't write. There I said it. Nothing flows easily and I don't know what to do. It seems as though the happiness of finally leaving the hellhole I grew up in, state and all, has put a strain on my creativity.

My sketches, my stories, they're all suffering.

I wonder if suffering is part of art, or if it's just part of life.

"Ich will ficken, nie mehr das alte leid."

Yes
No
Do nothing