Bea stared. Her blue, blue eyes that were said to reflect the clear skies of France didn't match the more morose skies of England in which the lands she had been taken to with her mother.

She supposed though, that perhaps, France's skies weren't as clear as it used to be before the German occupation. Perhaps, she mused in a very sardonic manner, France's skies were as morose as England's, if not even more.

Bea frowned at that thought, she felt very detached from her home country all of a sudden. It felt as though, the only personal attachment she had left of herself to her once great and free country was robbed of her. Leaving her and her beloved, beloved mother lost and confused, lack of identity on the lands across the English Channel

You scratched off the entirety of the last paragraph, the inspired flow put to an end for the sake of conscious critical analysis.

A rumble of frustration rose in your throat when your critical analysis resulted in disappointment. Something was wrong in the draft, but you couldn't tell what; it was like an itch you couldn't reach, constantly irritating the surface of your skin. Your grammar checked off, as far as you were able to comprehend. Your writing style didn't change, it wasn't like a child's.

You needed a muse.

You desperately needed a muse because good lord knows how long you've cooped yourself up in your flat. You were running out of inspiration, because of that. That was the conclusion that you drew to.

Crumpling your recent draft and tossing it into the mounting pile of similar looking papers spilling out the waste basket, you pushed back your chair and stood up. Your legs buckled for a moment, your heart jumping into your throat before you regained balance.

"God, I really need to go out." You grumbled to yourself, looking around your cluttered flat. The realisation that you haven't been tending to yourself really hit when your eyes landed on the digital clock on the bedside table, reading in blinding red LED lights, 9:43 am.

You had stayed up the whole night trying in vain to write something for your editor to criticise and drag through the mud; criticising and dragging drafts through the mud is an editor's job, after all. You wouldn't make your editor jobless. It explained what you saw in the mirror, you supposed.

Curiously but also cautiously, you took a whiff at your sweatshirt, belching instantly at the unpleasant smell your nose picked up. "I need a shower." You intelligently stated. Taking off your specs and starting to undress, you went to freshen up.

You were really, really bad at taking care of yourself.

13 September 2013, 10:00 a.m.

"Oh? Looks like a certain English lady hath returned from the land of snails," Alice, the Englishwoman you jested, quirked a lopsided grin at you, from your spot near the lift after you stepped out into the lobby. She folded her legs on the couch, luggage at her feet as she patted the spot on the couch beside her, a silent invitation to have a lengthy chat.

Adjusting your pesky specs that had a foul habit of sliding down the bridge of your nose,(really, you needed to get yourself a new pair) you sauntered to the couch, and instead of sitting down next to Alice, you tousled her black hair that bordered brown; her hair was soft, submitting easily to your touch like silk. "Sorry, Alice. I'm a writer on a mission," Alice frowned.

"Well, alright then." She resigned. "But dinner at my place?" You opened your mouth to give an excuse, the excuse stuck somewhere in the back of your throat, held back by something, conscience, perhaps; the deadline was looming far too close for your comfort. "Please? You and I both know how horrid you are at taking care of yourself," She gave a pointed stare, daring you to deny such an established fact between the both of you. You hesitated. 'Especially with how close your deadline is' was left unsaid, but you picked it up either way.

"I'll even let you have your pesky pencils and papers on the table." Alice persisted.

You relented; you know Alice meant well.

Alice always meant well.

At your agreement, Alice smiled gleefully before standing up to envelope you in a friendly embrace. You reciprocated just as eagerly, missing the warmth of another person after the absence of Alice for nearly a month. Alice, she was a small in stature woman. When you embrace her, your awkward, long arms would wrap around her like a protective blanket; your nose would detect the smell of nature and cinnamon when you bury your nose into her hair, that tickled your freckled, flushed cheeks and you never complained about how ticklish you were of it because it was such a pleasant feeling.

13 September 2013, 10:56 a.m.

The bitter taste of Americano embraces your taste buds like a lover, sliding down your throat and warming your body to fend off the chilly autumn air.

Pushing up your specs, you looked around Hyde Park from your place on a bench littered with the dying, but beautiful autumn leaves of September on the pavement at the feet of the bench. With your notebook on your lap and your pencil tapping almost impatiently on a blank page, you curled your toes in your heavy set boots.

The chilly air was nipping mercilessly at your flushed cheeks, sending a prickling sensation throughout your face. You tapped your pencil that hovered over the blank page, slumping slightly when no essence of inspiration dropped into your little inspiration jar.

You took a deep breath of the autumn air, causing you to instinctively scrunch your face at the unpleasant sensation of cold, dry air filing through your throat. You reached for your Americano once more, the heat tingling at the tips of your gloved fingers, spreading through the rest of your body as you downed the hot liquid.

Then, with your head in the clouds and pencil still hovering over the frustratingly pure, unmarred blank page that pushed you over the edge one too many times throughout your whole career as a professional writer, you received a drop of inspiration. It was only a drop, yet it flowed throughout your little jar, lighting it up with ideas, emotions, actions, words and an entire scene, eventually. Your nastily pure and blank page was finally filled to the brim with your messy, cluttered handwriting as you tried to jot down every single passing idea; pages upon pages filled with paragraphs, sentences and words.

Once you were pulled out of your reverie with a full stop, you looked up, to try and find your muse once more.

But she was gone. And so did the inspiration with her.

The world seemed so bleak once again.