Creative crisis

When the brushes, sleepily and lazily, try to get out of the stall, not wanting to perform their functions anymore, shouting “Down with!” fall loudly on the table, remain in their opinion, without proving that they draw, and not them. When the flowers of changeable muses faded from old age and withered from syphilis, and problems that are not worth a damned egg are cut like a sharp knife, swelling more with emptiness than with essence. When the stocks in tin cans run out, you want to eat, and the candle of hope goes out - the ass comes!
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