guess I'll start with an intro...

He sits, staring across the river, seeing so much more. Or does he see nothing at all? Even I don't know where she (his Muse, not her) took him this time, what images and fantasies he finds himself in. He lights up another cigareete, another to add to the collection growing in the weeds behind him. Trading a step closer to death for a couple more pages in the story, maybe even an entire chapter this time. All great artists would trade precious hours, days, even years for a chance at a masterpiece, after all. If only the words came as easily as he hoped. His Muse only guides his thoughts after all, not his actions. Only shows him a piece of the story, but never puts it on the page. And so he inhales again and looks for her to be walking along the bridge above the river (the girl, not the Muse). She's not there, never there. In the dreams she walks across the bridge, but nothing more. Nothing more that he knows of because The Muse will always interfere, taking him away from dreams of hopeless infatuation to hopeless situations. Situations he can always escape from nonetheless. After all, that's a hero's job, to survive The Funhouse. But that's enough about heroes since he's yet to move past envisioning and onto creation. Instead he sits at the river with a slowly vanishing pack of cigarettes, a pen, and a blank notebook marked only with scrawls of unfinished thoughts, half sentences if you will, like an open-ended straight draw. But Poker isn't his game (it's mine) and so he has no place here. What belongs here are Immortality, Fate, Serendipity, Blades and Fangs, Trials and Tribulations, and her (the girl and the Muse). Essentially the tools and materials to build the Funhouse for his (or is it mine? or our?) characters to get lost in, hallways turning into stories as the lovers fade into one another while we, he, I tilt at the windmills that never will be.