The leaden tip of her pencil hovers patiently over the paper. Her heart rate is lowering. Her blood is surging slower every second. She's been waiting, with her lip between her teeth and her eyebrows straining towards each other, for it to drip down the pencil and flow across the paper and make art. But it keeps getting slower. She has to make it move, so she runs out to the fields and she strokes the tall grass and she begs it to inspire. But her blood keeps getting slower. So she runs into the forest and weaves between trunks and branches that snag her hair like greedy, beckoning fingers and the ground that dampens her socks. She can hear the creek sputtering in the distance and she calls out to it, begs it to sing to her blood, but it doesn't. And her blood keeps getting slower. And now she's lost. And it's getting dark.