In which nothing much is said
Today I will tell you about one of my favourite tales.
There is a Neil Gaiman story in which Morpheus punishes a writer for holding one of the muses, Calliope, captive. For refusing to release Calliope, the writer was doomed to suffer from a continuous hale of ideas, attacking him like vultures to a carrion. Such was his torment that when paper and ink had run out, he was forced to write on walls.
His fingers were his pens.
His blood, the ink.
Revenge of the Muses, so to speak.
nads went at 14:35