"Damn it, nothing's working!" Cook flings his pen down on the blank page, and unhoists his guitar from around his neck. He glares at it as if he could fling it, too.
His Muse rolls his eyes. You throw that, you'll never get over this block today, he says reasonably.
Cook transfers his glare to his Eames sofa. The Muse has perched on its curved back, long limbs gleaming under his classical tunic, the circlet of gold leaves slightly askew on his dark hair. "And why aren't you helping me?" Cook wants to know.
The Muse shrugs, his dark eyes bright with mischief, or some other emotion. Um, I'm not feeling too inspired, either, he murmurs. I'm kind of thinking, maybe you don't love me any more, David Cook. It's been a while since you've offered me any libations, or, you know, anything at all.
Cook gets to his feet, and walks over to the sofa. The Muse slides onto the broad body of the Eames, stretches out one graceful arm. You know, when you were a struggling artist, you'd offer to me all the time. You might not have had a lot of coin, but you'd offer wine, and companionship, and late nights. I remember you used to write into the small hours of the morning, in my arms.
The Muse leans back, his thighs part, one bare leg dangles to the floor. And you'd offer love, David. Now you're famous, I'm not sure you still feel the same about me, about us. Maybe you wanna go offer to Erato, or Calliope, or the other Muses. I hear these days Calli's tight with Adam Lambert, you should give her a call.
Cook sits on the edge of the sofa, puts a hand on the Muse's hip. "I'll always love you," he tells his Muse, his beloved. "I'm sorry I don't show it as much as I used to, but I'm yours, forever, and no one else's."
Then you can show me now, the Muse says, softly, and raises his all-inspiring arms to Cook's at last.
Offerings to Polyhymnia, [PG-13/R]: Arch is Cook's demanding Muse of Song
His Muse rolls his eyes. You throw that, you'll never get over this block today, he says reasonably.
Cook transfers his glare to his Eames sofa. The Muse has perched on its curved back, long limbs gleaming under his classical tunic, the circlet of gold leaves slightly askew on his dark hair. "And why aren't you helping me?" Cook wants to know.
The Muse shrugs, his dark eyes bright with mischief, or some other emotion. Um, I'm not feeling too inspired, either, he murmurs. I'm kind of thinking, maybe you don't love me any more, David Cook. It's been a while since you've offered me any libations, or, you know, anything at all.
Cook gets to his feet, and walks over to the sofa. The Muse slides onto the broad body of the Eames, stretches out one graceful arm. You know, when you were a struggling artist, you'd offer to me all the time. You might not have had a lot of coin, but you'd offer wine, and companionship, and late nights. I remember you used to write into the small hours of the morning, in my arms.
The Muse leans back, his thighs part, one bare leg dangles to the floor. And you'd offer love, David. Now you're famous, I'm not sure you still feel the same about me, about us. Maybe you wanna go offer to Erato, or Calliope, or the other Muses. I hear these days Calli's tight with Adam Lambert, you should give her a call.
Cook sits on the edge of the sofa, puts a hand on the Muse's hip. "I'll always love you," he tells his Muse, his beloved. "I'm sorry I don't show it as much as I used to, but I'm yours, forever, and no one else's."
Then you can show me now, the Muse says, softly, and raises his all-inspiring arms to Cook's at last.