Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
The incessant anthem forming the dread of artists everywhere. It's the sound that counts down to a head-pounding, hair-pulling fit. It's the calling of a lord with an iron grip around your neck.
  The numb roar of words swirling out of control, pounding against an adamant skull refusing to let them go. A furious torrent of consciousness that reels itself back from escape. The drilling of ideas pressing against the tip of a pen that refuses to bleed the ink.
But there is a certain sick comfort that comes from it. The kind that makes you realize the undeniably immense control that shatters every protesting bone in your body. The kind of relief that compresses and molds your vitality into arrant submission. A mild form of torture, one that condemns the soul into acceptance of slavery.
There are moments of escape, of relief from this interminable power. And it is during these moments where the ink is drained to every futile drop, where the days extend into nights and the nights extend into days--and yet time passes in the flash of a second. And it is during these moments when there is nothing but silence and the unhindered bond of an artist and his medium. And it is during these moments when the clock stops.
But these moments fade all too quickly into the complex mesh of time. And the feeling of submission wafts over you like the smell of rotten eggs from the garbage disposal--loathing, yet comfortable. The tempest begins churning through your veins to the ceaseless rhythm of a clock.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.