I turned myself inside out for nothing that was good.
Further down the dirt path the trees began to thin out into a single line, evenly spaced. Between each tree Gregory made out a broad field of tomb stones. He whistled between his teeth; he had always pitied those people who lived next to grave yards.
In the middle of a field he spotted an abandoned barn. Its silver-grey wood shone in the waning light of the sun; from his vantage it looked sturdy. It was still standing.
Work in progress of an illustration for the next installment of The Wandering Stranger!s
There is no better way of putting it. Eloquent words will strip away it's meaning. Unlike writers block, the suck doesn't just affect writers. Anyone is fair game.