My muse has left me for a time. For I am devoid of inspiration and my pen is unable to be put to work. The blank parchments stare in my face as the beeswax candles burn low, casting flickering shadows around my room. The barest of a room that I am in. If it still can be called so. I shall not write much today. Nothing is worth of pursuit for a strange dream has occured to me today. Strange that I am in the dream with a person and her face is blank to me. Ghastly dreams, who's your master? Answer me! I am going insane again...Time for dinner. Who shall I pick tonight? A proletarian? Or a physician that's going on house calls today? Mmmm...

Yours truly
Aristocrat