The writer stabs frantically at the keyboard, her fingertips mashed to gangrenous bloody stumps from detailing graphic character interaction and extraneous tangents. Rancid puss from her mutilated digits has encrusted beneath home row, retarding the tactile resilience of the "S" and "D" keys. This only incites her to peck harder, exacerbating necrotic contusions and inflaming carpel tunnels. Her monitor emits a leukemia-inducing electromagnetic field, yet she is a moth drawn to its flame, unaware of the lethal mutations conspiring within her marrow. Her muscles atrophy to impotent fibers impregnated by fatty globules, while her intestines strain against putrid victuals. Incapable of evoking the right adjective, she bangs her cranium against a wall -- only to be hit by the revelation that her adjectives are superfluous, slowly asphyxiating her tenuous narrative. She violently splits an infinitive, then fosters a bitter disagreement between verb tenses. "It is writ ..." She grasps for a carcinogenic dose of coffee; but ergonomically flawed posture has deformed her spine, and a bulging disk grates the sciatic nerve. "It is written that creativity will triumph over the gratuitous." Suddenly, a vessel ruptures in her left eye and blood seeps into the fragile membrane around her iris: Her muse has taken possession... "Art thee prepared to suffer for thy art?"