Without my Tasta, I have refused to succumb to any other vulnerabilities which might leave me open to the inspiration of the Muses. For I have confused myself and my reason for existing.
Asia is disappointed with me to the point of anger, yet I am forcing myself into the mechanics of musical practice as is expected of me. The scales are rigorously played. Up and down, up and down, the rise and fall of crescendo ceaseless. Monotonous. Perfectly played, rhythmic tempo paced, until the very walls scream out for reprieve.
Asia ignores me, yet I do this to spite her. And at the heart of all this noise, there lies a chasm of silence that I am crushed beneath. For there is no longer any inspiration to ignite my fires.
